Mycroft Holmes: Master of Secrets
by Rector
Summary: A romance. Treason, treachery and the Tower of London. Scandalous political intrigue and Spies. A Cate and Mycroft story.
1. Chapter 1

**Acknowledgements**:

This is a non-profit _homage_ based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series _Sherlock_. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr. Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

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**Note**:

This narrative is sixth in a series. Your enjoyment of this story will likely be enhanced if you read the sequence in chronological order:

**i The Education of Mycroft Holmes**

**ii Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree**

**iii Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol**

**iv Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis**

**v The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes**

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**Mycroft Holmes: Master of Secrets**

**Chapter One**

_Once Upon a Time – An Honest Man – A Master of Spies – The Plot Thickens – The Story of Hydrogen – Beyond the Pale – Traitor._

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'_It was too late. As he looked back, he saw Williams cut the last link in the coupling, allowing the carriage to part company from the rest of the train. Inertia kept the coach steady for a handful of seconds before surrendering to gravity. Grandhi felt the rise of uncontrolled speed through the soles of his boots as he headed back down towards the bridge and the gorge; a visceral and ancient fear choked the breath in his throat._

_His last cogent thought was that they'd never find his body, or the code._

_He was almost right.'_

Cate added the final full-stop and sat back, pleased. That was nearly three-thousand words today; not bad, considering. At this rate, she'd be close to finishing the novel in a matter of weeks. It was rather exciting.

Hearing the front-door close, she smiled and stretched. The twins had been fed and were having their evening bath from Nora and then they'd head to bed, hopefully to sleep the night through, although that was a matter increasingly subject to change lately. Perhaps because the nights had been so unseasonably warm of recent. Walking into the kitchen from her desk in the rear lounge, Cate poured two glasses of a chilled Margaret River _Semillon blanc_. Sipping hers, she held up the other glass as Mycroft walked in from the hallway.

"I see you've been practicing your telepathy again," he smiled, taking the hock glass and putting it down on the stone countertop. "_Darling_," he wrapped her into a gentle embrace, his lips brushing hers. "How goes the writing?"

"I finished another chapter, which makes me feel appallingly smug," she grinned. "I was just about to go up and tuck them in," she added, raising her eyes to the ceiling. "Or do you want to do it while I get dinner?"

"I'll go," Mycroft smiled again. After a day pouring oil, almost literally, on the troubled waters of an off-shore international border-dispute, the notion of being welcomed by two small children was a pleasant one. He headed up to the nursery.

"Oh, hello, Mr Mycroft," Nora was helping Jules put his feet into his pyjamas. "They'll soon be ready for their bedtime story."

Looking for his daughter, Mycroft observed a small, quilt-covered lump in her cot. _Ah_. Clearly a cunning ploy to remain unobserved, he nodded sagely.

"Have you seen Blythe?" he asked Nora in a wondering tone. "I can't see her anywhere and I have such an interesting bedtime story."

The quilt twitched.

"Is it a story about very good children going to sleep?" Mrs Compton kept a straight face.

"Much better than that, Nanny Nora," he watched the lump wriggle. "It's about _Accountants_."

Julius, now standing, was hanging onto the rails of his cot. Even at his tender age, he showed signs of being a thoughtful individual; Mycroft stroked the child's dark hair. "Would you like to hear a story about Accountants?"

Staring up at his father, Julius smiled suddenly, grinning with nearly a full set of milk teeth. Lifting his arms for a cuddle, he waited to be picked up which he invariably was, his father utterly defenceless in the face of such transparent affection.

Holding his son high up against his chest. Mycroft inhaled the scent of clean child and closed his eyes as two small hands rested on his face.

"_Antant_?" Julius leaned back to peer into his father's eyes, the boy's hazel gaze wide and curious.

"Accountants, yes, my darling," Mycroft kissed his boy's soft cheek before laying him back down in the warm cot.

Unable to maintain her invisibility any longer, Blythe pulled the quilt down and grinned happily. "_Adda_," she crooned, also wanting to be cuddled.

Still experiencing disbelief that he was in any measure responsible for these small creatures, he scooped her up, growling against her rounded tummy. Squealing in delight, Blythe covered his eyes with her fingers. "Bly go'," she chortled.

"Blythe goes to sleep soon," kissing her gently; Mycroft returned his daughter to her bed and pulled a chair over to his usual place between the two cots.

Looking at both of his children with a serious expression, Mycroft began his story.

"Once upon a time, there were three very wicked Accountants," he said. "One worked for a leading international hedge fund, the second was a senior acquisitions manager in a major British bank, and the third, the most foolish of them all, worked in the Disbursements section of the Department of Defence …"

Slicing mushrooms, Cate smiled. Everything was so perfect right now, it couldn't possibly last. The children were blossoming daily, although they'd recently started having the oddest conversations in the middle of the night; Mycroft was as happy and cheerful as she'd ever known him, and she … well, her situation was undecided.

In addition to maternity-leave, Cate had decided to use up the substantial amount of holidays she had accrued over the last eight years. It meant that she could be away from her office for a year before she was forced to clarify the direction of her future. The year was practically up: it was the twins' first birthday in couple of weeks.

Mycroft, of course, was delighted she had delayed a return to formal work, and had done everything possible to dissuade her from considering any return at all, although he had to be subtle: undue emphasis risked resistance. It had become something of a challenge, one which he handled vigilantly; each day an incremental opportunity to have Cate happily engaged at home. It was a low-key but highly clandestine action on his part and he counted coup every time she took pleasure in being away from the campus: a tenuous game of chess, every move laden with exquisite strata. He was actually quite enjoying such a test of his ingenuity.

It had become clear to Cate very early on that Mycroft wanted her take an extended absence from the University; it was something he had been advocating since their wedding. In turn, she made it perfectly clear that it was her choice to be at home with the children this first year, but after that time, she would decide her future and, regardless of direction, she expected his total support. In the meantime, she observed his delicate manoeuvring with quiet amusement.

He had smiled when she announced her plans.

"If there is anything you need, my darling," Mycroft pressed her palm to his chest. "Just say. You know I have only your wellbeing at heart."

Cate smiled too: everything Mycroft said had at least two interpretations. But he always stood by his word and, though they might disagree on a mutual definition of _wellbeing_, he valued her happiness more than she did.

Which was why, when she announced she was taking a full year away from the University, she also declared her intention to write a spy-novel.

The twins were sitting in their high-chairs; Jules had taken an interest in solid foods at an early age and now joined her for creamy porridge every morning. Blythe's appetite was more fickle, and all she wanted at the moment were carrots. As long as it looked like carrot, she would eat it, a fact that had led Mrs Compton to a number of interesting culinary experiments. The child adored pureed carrots and a whole one to chew on. _Ah_, Cate thought, giving her daughter another sweet root to gnaw. The joys of teething.

Mycroft had just sat down to breakfast when she told him her ambition.

"_Spies_? Really?"

"I am motivated by your work," Cate was thoughtful as she drizzled honey on her own porridge. "I have a tremendous urge to expose the machinations of the British security services, their illicit subterfuges and mysterious intrigues."

Mycroft subdued a smile. Nothing Cate might write would come anywhere close to the bizarre reality that was British and indeed, international, security these days. It would be interesting to see what her creative mind invented.

"You have my wholehearted support, my love," he smiled, crunching toast. "Am I to be permitted a preview?"

"If you're incredibly sweet to me and promise not to scoff, I might be amenable to a preview," Cate sipped tea. "And of course," she added meaningfully. "If you care to drop the odd hint or two, then I'd be much happier writing an accurate narrative than thinking about returning to the University," she added, innocently, her eyes widening as he met her gaze. "You might even consider introducing me to a spy."

"I am but a humble Civil Servant," Mycroft gave her a level look. "My work is entirely devoid of the stuff of espionage novels."

"Of _course_ it is, darling," her amusement unchecked, Cate poured more tea, turning to Blythe as the child heaved a loud sigh.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" Cate checked the carrot was still in play.

Blythe frowned seriously, looking between both adults and took a big breath.

"Want tea," she said, pointing at her mother's cup. "Mumma please."

A smile curling her mouth, Cate looked at Mycroft who seemed equally surprised. The twins had been speaking nonsense-words to each other since they were six-months old, occasionally with a recognisable word thrown in. Jules had caught her unawares a few weeks earlier by calling her _Meema_, but neither had yet constructed a coherent sentence. It would have to be Blythe, of course, the most demanding and talkative of the pair.

"You want some tea, darling?" Mycroft leaned forward to meet his daughter's hopeful sapphire gaze.

Meeting her father's inquiring look, Blythe nodded slowly. "_Adda_," she lifted her eyebrows and looked suddenly so much like Sherlock that Cate laughed. Mycroft shook his head, captivated. "Then you shall have some, my clever girl," he said, reaching for the child's plastic cup and the teapot. Ensuring his daughter could see every move, he made a great show of pouring several drops of tea into the lukewarm milk.

"Is that enough, do you think?" he replaced the teapot.

Frowning again in thought, Blythe nodded, reaching for the cup and sipping the resultant brew with great enjoyment.

"Looks like the British tea-industry is safe for another generation," Cate grinned. "I shall have to see what else our daughter might want to talk about today."

Mycroft smiled quietly and counted another small victory.

###

He had cause to recall that conversation this morning, as he sat, assessing the dour facial-expression of the Chief of MI6. They were in a very private room in a very private building; a building that lacked designation on any Whitehall map. Both men naturally assumed every word they said would be recorded for posterity by the opposition.

"I am perfectly serious, Holmes," Davis Morgan linked his fingers across his chest. "The documents cite your name in several areas, and these are very delicate documents."

"May I see them?" Mycroft half-smiled. It would not be the first time someone had attempted to take his authority in vain.

"Afraid not, at least, not _yet_," Morgan shrugged slightly. "Protocol says we are still to prove the documents' illegitimacy," he looked fractionally pained. "Or otherwise," he added, softly.

"And where, did you say," Mycroft poured two cups of tea. "These papers were discovered?"

"I don't think I actually did say, did I?" Morgan added two sugars to his cup and stirred slowly. "However, for the sake of argument, let's imagine they were located in the safe of an extremely wealthy Italian with ambitions to national power."

"Not the type of individual much given to sharing secrets with MI6 operatives, one might assume," Mycroft decided to forgo a biscuit. "However did you persuade him?"

"The gentleman in question is not yet aware we have, ah, _access_ to these papers," Morgan smiled again. "Our operatives are _highly_ trained, after all."

Refraining from comment, Mycroft met the man's gaze.

"And you are telling me this now, why?" he asked, curiously. Though all the security services were nominally part of the same landscape, it was a very large landscape, with exceptionally poor visibility in parts.

"If the papers are accurate, I'm giving you time to put your affairs in order," Morgan sniffed. "You have a wife and young children," he said. "I'm not a monster. There are things you will want to do."

"The papers are false," Mycroft replaced his teacup. "What I _want_ is for my people to have sight of these documents before the end of the day so that we may pursue our own investigation."

"Can't do it, old chap," Morgan finished his tea. "_Eyes only_, and all that."

Pursing his lips, Mycroft frowned.

It was entirely within his remit to demand the documents and he would have them within the hour. However, that would mean revealing more of his authority than he preferred. Irritating, but it might be advantageous in the long run to follow the inter-service protocols, after all; he had designed most of them himself. Besides, he was genuinely curious as to the true genesis of these papers, whatever they were.

"Unless your findings are corroborated by an external party, any results are questionable," he mused. "If you prefer not to allow uncontrolled access beyond your department, send them over with an escort: witnesses to integrity, as it were."

"You'd agree to a chaperone?"

"Since there is nothing to hide, you may send whomsoever you wish; I will ensure they are given free-rein."

"The bold words of an honest man," Morgan linked his fingers again. "Or the lies of a clever one," he smiled faintly.

Lifting his eyebrows, Mycroft finished his tea.

###

"But you see," Cate said later as they were getting ready for bed. "I don't think real spies would be anything like they are in conventional narratives."

Lying with his hands beneath his head and his eyes closed, Mycroft was contemplating sleep. It had been a long few days and he was more than usually tired. However, the conversation piqued his interest. If she were really to write a novel, he couldn't help but feel curious. Exactly what did Cate have in mind?

Opening his eyes, he watched her shimmy into a silk nightgown, the fine fabric clinging everywhere it touched. She had regained her pre-baby contours within a few months, although at the time, she'd complained her shape had, annoyingly, changed.

"Your waist is an inch narrower," Mycroft noted, objectively. "Your hips are an inch wider and your breasts …"

Narrowing her eyes, Cate waited. "What's wrong with my breasts?" she gave him a faintly ominous look.

"Absolutely nothing at all," he murmured appreciatively. "They're magnificent."

Reserving judgement, she ended up buying new garments to fit her still-slender, but fractionally curvier form, one of which adorned her this evening. The slinky blue one. He rather liked the slinky blue one.

"How are the narratives wrong?" he watched her brush her hair and slip into bed, leaning back against the cool pillows as she stared up at the ceiling, thinking.

"What's a real spy like?" she asked, turning towards him and leaning on her side. He noted the tactile velvetiness of her skin and the slow rise and fall of her … magnificence. Despite the tiredness, Mycroft felt a pulse of interest. It was impossible to avoid.

"They would be background, wouldn't they?" Cate met his eyes. "If I were a spy, the very _last_ thing I'd need was to be noticed or remarked upon by anyone. I'd cultivate a wallpaper-personality; one people would forget the second after they saw me."

Assessing his wife's thoughtful expression, he agreed with her silently. Of course, she was quite right. No spy worthy of the job could afford to be memorable either in appearance or deed. If she were going to write a realistic novel, he realised he would have to read it very carefully indeed.

"And then," she lay back, her mind already flying off in different directions. "I'd be interested to know what kind of a person it would take to direct a spy," she said, thoughtfully. "If a spy has to be clever and self-reliant and brave and daring, then the person to whom they reported would have to be fairly intriguing," she mused, staring up at their bedroom's ornate ceiling frieze. "One would have to be a formidable person to be in charge of spies,' she said. "What do they call that job?" crinkling her forehead, Cate half-turned to him, still thinking.

"_Control_," Mycroft uttered, a half-second before he bit his tongue, but she seemed not to have noticed. He exhaled quietly: he was more tired than he realised.

"Yes," Cate was staring up at the ceiling again. "Someone to control them," she said, musing. "Someone very clever; a strategist, with a global perception and a vast ruthlessness. Someone incredibly daring in their own right, but more in the way of masterminding the perfect plan, who might never be openly acknowledged for their role," she sighed. "Someone," she smiled engagingly, turning back to stare into his deep blue eyes. "Just like _you_, my darling husband," she rested on her elbow, her gaze wide and examining.

Mycroft was caught. He would never lie to her, yet he felt unable to be openly truthful.

"You imagine me a Spymaster?" he smiled, his eyes crinkling in good humour. "I'm incredibly flattered."

Cate was staring at him candidly, as if something in his tone or expression had added fuel to her suspicion.

"Yes," she said. "I could see you as a Master of spies," she nodded, thoughtfully.

Mycroft realised his only way out of this would be to have her change the subject.

"You'd probably make a successful spy, you realise?" he said, turning the conversation. "You have the skills."

"Do I?" Cate smiled, immediately fascinated, neglecting to ask how he might know this.

Mycroft rolled over on his side to face her, his fingertips stroking her upper arm.

"You're intelligent, clever, self-reliant, creative and daring," he smiled. "What else do you need to be a spy?"

"Motivation?" Cate wriggled closer so his fingers could reach more of her.

"Spies must have all sorts of reasons," Mycroft inhaled the faint scent of her perfume, a tantalising fragrance on the edge of his awareness. An image of his wife as a real spy suddenly crossed his thoughts. Cate did indeed have the requisite skills, although she was far too far from being bland to make that approach work for her; no. She'd have to go the opposite way entirely and become so bold that she rose above suspicion for the very reason she would be too obvious. She would have to become a public-figure, such as an acknowledged artist or musician, or academic, or … writer.

The thought of Cate as a spy … as an intelligence agent … as one of _his_ agents … Mycroft felt a sudden heat in his belly at the notion of Cate working for him, living dangerously for _him_.

She lay there, watching his eyes. He was looking at her suddenly so very seriously. Where the idea of a spy-story had come from, she had no idea. It was simply in her head one morning when she awoke. Perhaps she'd had a dream about a dashing man with a gun in one hand and a gorgeous woman in the other. Perhaps she'd remembered the look on Mycroft's face when the BBC news announced a bombing in some far-away or not-so far-away, town. Maybe it was because she wondered if her husband was more closely involved in British security than he admitted. Whatever the inspiration, Cate only knew she had an overwhelming urge to write fiction for the first time in her life, and that she wanted to write about spies.

"Will it be a romance?" Mycroft asked, eventually, lifting a hand to stroke her collarbone.

"As in a romanticisation of reality?" Cate smiled, blinking slowly. "I suppose so," she said. "I have no plans to write for a Nobel."

"Will it be autobiographical?" Mycroft followed the line of her jaw with a fingertip. "I've heard authors often do this when they write something new."

"You think I might write myself into my own narrative as a spy?" Cate arched her eyebrows. _Now there was a thought_. "I could," she looked back at the ceiling. "It might be exciting to be a spy."

_Exciting indeed_.

"A beautiful female agent, trained for espionage and secret operations?" Mycroft was smiling now as his fingers trailed over her throat. The pulse beneath her skin enticed and created a matching throb in his own body.

"No real spy would be beautiful," Cate shook her head, thinking. "Which is fine, as I'd be quite drab and ordinary and act like something else entirely."

She was circling back to a reality he wanted to avoid.

"You'd be a wonderful agent," Mycroft brushed her wrist with his lips. "Resourceful, educated, sirenic …"

"Sirenic?" Cate smiled as his touch gave her goosebumps.

Imagining his wife as a spy took on an entirely different aspect as he saw her in a more seductive, dynamic role; someone whose job it was to complete their mission, no matter the cost. The thought of being ensnared and seduced by her was unexpectedly arousing.

"_Mmm_," he smiled, his imagination supplying all manner of titillating images. "Catherine the spy, acquiring the secrets of neo-empire," the idea of her in floating silks, with a Beretta strapped to her inner thigh, adding to his fantasy.

"Will your story be romantic?" he asked, sliding his arm around her waist, thoughts of her as an agent sent to tempt him; acquire his secrets, becoming a provoking fancy.

Smiling, Cate half-closed her eyes as he leaned in, pulling her closer to his chest.

"You mean will it have lots of sex in it?" she stretched herself up into his arms, rubbing her nose against the soft skin of his throat. "I expect so," she murmured, pressing tiny kisses underneath his jaw. "Can't really have celibate spies, can you?" she breathed, groaning in pleasure as his warm hands pressed against the curve of her back, moulding her to his body.

"Not if they're British," Mycroft found her mouth and teased with light kisses that sent signals of pleasure all the way through her. It was difficult to think about writing plots when one's husband was preventing rational thought.

"You don't really want to talk about spy stories right now, do you?" Cate closed her eyes and slid her arms around his neck, meeting his kisses with her own.

"Not really," he agreed, taking her mouth until she was breathless and lost in him.

###

And so she began. Setting the whole thing up as an academic exercise, Cate wasn't sure of the best way to go about writing a novel, but decided to treat it just like any other writing project. This meant she needed an objective, a structure and data. There was a ghost of a plot already in her mind, but to put it into the flesh would require hard facts and information.

First things first, in that case: a list of things she needed to know: places, locations; activities; technical data and a cast: she spent the entire morning in happy planning, arriving with surprise at lunchtime, with a reasonably comprehensive plan and outline. Now she needed to populate her creative landscape with believable people. One of the central characters was to be a shadowy entity who pulled strings unseen and had enormous power at their fingertips. Smilingly, she thought she might base that particular _persona_ on Mycroft. He'd find it amusing, no doubt.

###

Nora being away for the day, Cate was in the process of giving the twins their lunch, when he called.

"Darling, Sherlock will likely appear to collect the box of old documents sitting on my desk, make sure that's all he takes, would you?"

"He's coming today?" Cate fed Blythe some carrot-and-mashed potato.

"Should be there within the hour, my love. How are the children?"

Sitting in their high-chairs, Julius was examining a piece of banana with an intensity that made her smile. His little face was frowning in concentration: God knows what he was looking at. Blythe had moved onto carrot-coloured custard and mashed banana. By all appearances, she was perfectly happy.

"Lunching," Cate smiled as she wiped her son's sticky fingers. "With great enthusiasm."

"I almost envy you," she could hear the smile in his voice as he pictured the domestic scene.

"We need more carrots," Cate grinned as her daughter ploughed through her orange'd dessert.

"Kiss them for me," and he was gone.

In the process of cleaning them up prior to their afternoon story and nap, the doorbell rang. Leaving them surrounded by toys on a sheepskin rug in the lounge, Cate ran to the front door, beckoned Sherlock in and ran back. The twins were already walking and if left alone, would wander quite happily around the house until discovered. Wanting to ensure their nap took place as planned; Cate preferred no wandering, just yet.

"Come into the lounge and I'll get you the box," she called to him over her shoulder, waving him through the door.

Stepping inside, Sherlock was the immediate focus of two pairs of eyes as the twins swivelled to see with whom their mother was conversing.

"_Unca_," Julius beamed, as Sherlock looked down, still somewhat unsure what to do with the children. The fact that they seemed to like him for no discernible or quantifiable reason had him at a loss.

"Hello, Jules," he replied, taking a seat on the sofa and watching as his young nephew pushed upright and plodded over to stand by his uncle's leg.

"Unca," the child looked grave. "Stawee."

Blythe felt it was important to assert her desires too and, clambering up, laid a small book reverently on Sherlock's knee. "Stor-ee?"

Both children fixed him with an optimistic gaze.

"You want me to read you a story?" he looked between a pair of calm hazel-green eyes and piercing blue ones. There were two identical nods.

"From this?" Sherlock picked up the slim book and examined the cover on which danced an anatomically-incorrect elephant dressed in a feathered hat. The nods were repeated.

Flipping through the few pages, he shook his head, unimpressed.

"This isn't the kind of story that will do you any good at all," he said. "I'll tell you a much better story about atomic numbers, how would that be?"

Lifting her eyebrows, Blythe looked doubtful. In her estimation, Nellie the Elephant was a classic and not something with which to trifle. However, _Unca_ _Shok_ had good stories too. It was a difficult decision, but, after sharing a weighty glance with Jules, she nodded their joint agreement. They would risk the temporary departure of Nellie on the grounds that _Unca's_ stories were usually acceptable. Her expression made it clear, however, that such latitude should not be assumed for the future.

"Are you going to stand or do you want to sit somewhere?" Sherlock frowned, ignorant as to story-telling protocols in this particular room. The twins appeared to have the most geographically subjective story-telling preferences: it required an encyclopaedic understanding of each room's narrativic delivery predilections to keep them happy.

Julius looked at the rug then back at Sherlock.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed briefly before sliding off the sofa and sitting cross-legged on the floor. They joined him immediately, expressions alert and interested. Pulling out his Blackberry, Sherlock called up an image of the Periodic Table.

"The universe we live in contains a large number of different elements," he began, turning the device around so that each child could see the entirety of the table in all its colourful glory. "Elements are things we need to exist, and each element has a name and a number," he continued, expanding one small square at the top left-hand corner of the diagram. "This one," he said, pointing, "is called _Hydrogen_, and it carries the number One, the lightest of all atomic weights."

"_Eydowjin_," Jules mimicked. "Hydownjen?"

Blythe shook her head, impatiently. "_Hidoogen_," she announced confidently. "Un."

"One," Sherlock held up a single digit. "One."

"_Un_," Blythe nodded in agreement. She'd already said that. "Un."

"_On_," Jules held up a finger, checking it was the same finger as Sherlock's.

"Very good," Sherlock leaned back against the sofa, explaining that, as it was the most abundant chemical element in the universe it was inside everything from small children to ancient stars and was first noted by a scientist called Boyle in 1671 …"

Standing in the doorway, Cate shook her head in amusement. Sherlock might insist he had nothing in common with the children, but he had them hanging on his every word, especially when he showed them pictures on his phone, the perfect size for small fingers.

Placing the box of papers on the hall table, she returned to the lounge and sat on the recently abandoned sofa, watching the three of them chatter about chemical compounds.

"And when two hydrogen molecules combine with one oxygen molecule," Sherlock found the structure of a water molecule. "We have water," he said. "Which makes your bath every night," he added, somehow conjuring up a picture of two small children sharing a bath.

Thrilled with the images and the new words, even though they had no real idea what had been discussed, the twins were happy. It had been a good story and they both liked the new pictures very much.

Blythe yawned. "_Hidogen_," she nodded sleepily.

"_Oh oh_, nap-time," Cate scooped Julius up from the floor. "Get Blythe, would you, Sherlock, please?" she asked, already out of the door, heading for the children's room.

"Your mother seems insistent that you sleep," he spoke softly, lifting his niece in one arm and following her mother up the stairs. In the nursery, Cate had lowered the blinds and deposited Jules in his cot. His eyes were already closed.

Laying Blythe down in her bed, Sherlock removed her shoes and covered her with the light quilt. Wriggling a little, she was asleep almost before he stepped back to the door.

"I'm afraid you may have earned yourself a job for life, telling them stories like that," Cate grinned. "Nellie the elephant simply cannot compete with the atomic weight of hydrogen and the wonders of a smartphone. You have been warned."

"They seemed to find it interesting," he raised his eyebrows. "And at least it's the truth."

Walking back downstairs, Cate grinned even more.

"Sherlock, they're babies, they don't care whether it's the truth or not, as long as it's an interesting story, told well, and you, my dear Brother-in-law, are a _natural_."

###

Apparently, his department was so beyond the pale, Morgan had felt it prudent to send _two_ chaperones with the documents: one, a woman, clearly one of his protégé high-flyers. The other, a man; administrative assistance by the look of it as he unzipped a couple of black bags disgorging a laptop and cables.

"Anywhere I can plug this lot in?" he asked, quietly, not wanting to get in the woman's way.

"Over there," Anthea nodded at an empty desk by the wall in the main Ops area. "Need anything else?"

"Thanks, no," he shook his head. "Not just yet."

"My Director doesn't trust you, Mr Holmes," the woman shook Mycroft's hand. "He seems to think you're up to something."

"It's his job to think that about everyone," Mycroft smiled politely. "May I see the documents?"

"Here?" the woman looked around. The room wasn't even secure.

"I trust my people, Ms ..?"

"_Croft_," she said. "Laura." The woman waited, as if for some remark or comment, but none was forthcoming.

"Then, Ms Croft," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows fractionally. "Please know that in this department, staff are accorded a high level of responsibility without constant internal oversight, and besides," he added, walking across to a large central table. "Who has time to watch everything?" That he knew precisely what each member of his staff was doing at any given moment in the office was neither here nor there. He didn't _need_ to watch them because he _knew_.

"That is a most … _enlightened_ philosophy, Mr Holmes," she smiled a little, placing a slim briefcase on the table and flicking open the combination lock.

Laying a series of signed letters out along the table, Croft gestured with her fingers.

"The originals, as you requested," she offered.

Leaning over them, observing the smallest of details, Mycroft could already see why Morgan assumed these were genuine. Not only on his department's paper, but printed on a machine standing not ten yards away and signed …

Standing stiffly upright, his eyes were narrowed and thoughtful.

The signatures were his, yet they could not possibly be his: he had not signed these papers. Something was very wrong here and that he could not immediately locate the flaw in the situation was discomforting. With a _moue_ of irritation, he stepped back, nodding to two of his staffers who were waiting for the invitation.

In seconds they had the papers laid out above a light-panel running along the length of the table, each page lit from beneath, revealing every detail, every mark, fingerprint; every scrap of information. The typeface and fonts were compared to similar pieces of writing, even samples of Mycroft's handwriting and signature were over- and underlaid, digitised and sent to the main wall-screen, where different samples were checked, rechecked and counter-checked against one another.

Mycroft waited, already aware of the result.

"_Sir_," Johns, the older and more experienced of the Forensic Graphologists, was distinctly uneasy. "I am unable to prove you did not write and sign these letters," he frowned. "I'm very sorry, sir," he added. "I'd like to run more tests in the lab."

"Nothing out of my sight," Croft shook her head decisively. "It was agreed that everything was to be done in plain sight."

"It was," Mycroft nodded, calmly. "And it has been." He drew a long breath. "Apparently, I wrote these letters," he murmured. "But how did they make it happen, I wonder?"

"I must report these results to my Director, of course, Mr Holmes," even Croft herself seemed uncomfortable. Looking back over her shoulder, she nodded to the man who had accompanied her. He tapped briefly at the keyboard of his laptop.

"Of course," Mycroft nodded abstractedly, his thoughts miles away. "No doubt I will be hearing from him."

###

Cate frowned when the front door finally opened and closed; Mycroft was never usually this late without calling and letting her know not to hold dinner. The twins were already asleep, but not before they had asked her for another story about the naughty _Antants_.

Waiting in the kitchen, she watched as he walked in, even his step suggesting his preoccupation. It was immediately clear that something fairly momentous was occupying his thoughts.

"What is it, darling?" she reached out to touch his arm. His eyes met hers in the most peculiar way, as if he had done something terribly wrong. "Whatever's the matter?" Cate's heart began to thump as he stood there, taking her expression in, his mind elsewhere.

"You will need to prepare youself, my love," he smiled gently. "I may have to be away for a little while."

"_Away_? Prepare myself? What's going on, Mycroft? Prepare for what?"

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to give you more warning, but in truth, I have had little enough myself."

"Mycroft, you're speaking in riddles," Cate was starting to feel a strange alarm. Something unpleasant was happening but she had no clear indication of what.

The front doorbell rang.

"Get that, will you, my sweet?" Mycroft went to the bottles of spirits in one corner of the kitchen and poured himself a small Ardbeg. He sniffed it appreciatively.

Shaking her head in complete confusion, Cate opened the door to see two large men in, despite the warm weather, dark overcoats. Their faces were empty of expression and sent a chill through her.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice wanting to whisper for some reason.

"Mrs Holmes?" the nearest man nodded. "We'd like to speak with your husband if we may, please."

"And just who are you who wish to speak with my husband?" Cate wasn't about to let anyone in. Especially not when they looked the way these two did.

Reaching into an inner pocket, the first man extracted a small leather wallet which he flipped open. "MI5, Mrs Holmes, and we really do need to speak with your husband now, if you please."

"Let them in Cate," Mycroft's voice came from behind her. "There's no point conducting this conversation on the street."

"What conversation?" Cate was now almost at panic-level. Something dreadful was about to happen and she still had no idea what it was.

Taking her hand in his, Mycroft smiled softly. "Remember, my love," he spoke quietly. "I have never lied to you nor shall I ever," raising her hand to his lips; he pressed a kiss to her skin.

The MI5 man coughed, diplomatically.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said. "You're under arrest."

"On what grounds?" Mycroft's fingers squeezed her hand.

"On grounds of treason against the Crown, Mr Holmes," the man's expression was flat. "It appears you're a traitor."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_Playing the Game – Thames House – An Interrogation – Conversation With a Russian - Safe As the Crown Jewels._

#

#

For a second, Cate felt the room spin, as her breathing caught and a wave of giddiness swept over her. "Mycroft?" she whispered, staring at her husband's composed expression. "What's happening? Why are they saying these things?"

"_Breathe_, my love," he looked serious but not worried. "Call Sherlock and …" he hesitated, momentarily. "Perhaps you might want to call Peter, as well."

The only mutual Peter they knew was Peter Menshikov. The Russian Ambassador.

_Mycroft arrested for treason and he suggests I call the Russian Ambassador?_

"That'll do now, Mr Holmes," the leading overcoated man pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, the intent clear.

"I assure you, those will not be necessary," Mycroft stepped close, wrapped an arm around Cate's shoulders and kissed her briefly. "But if you are adamant," he turned, both wrists held out for the steel.

"If you say they won't be necessary, Mr Holmes …"

"I feel though," Mycroft sounded incredibly reasonable, "that for the sake of your professional reputations, I must accept all custody protocols." He offered up his wrists again.

"But …" the man in the coat was clearly uncomfortable now.

"I _insist_," Mycroft's voice was silky.

With obvious reluctance, the handcuffs were secured.

"Shall I call our solicitors?" Cate couldn't believe this was happening. "Do you want me to find a Barrister? Is there _anyone_ ..?" pressing a hand across her mouth, she deliberately stilled the ragged heave of her lungs.

"I will be away a little while until this situation is resolved," Mycroft took her free hand and looked directly into her anxious eyes. "There is nothing serious for you to worry about but everything must be seen to be done according to the rules, my darling. Do you understand?"

"Not really," Cate shook her head. "How can you expect me to understand something like this?"

Mycroft smiled strangely, almost sadly. "My dearest wife, you have a brilliant mind and will work it out, but it appears we must be accommodating until _others_," he turned and looked less-than-favourably upon the two MI5 operatives. "Are able to work it out as well. Kiss the children for me and tell them I'll be home soon."

"_Will_ you be home soon?" Cate intended her voice to be strong and confident, but it refused to co-operate, emerging as a semi-whisper. To her knowledge, people weren't arrested for treason every day of the week.

"Sooner than some might expect," he smiled again. "I'll see you very shortly."

"Where are you taking him?" Cate turned to the man who had dared handcuff her husband, suddenly fierce with anger. "Tell me or I shall call the police."

"It will do no good, Cate," Mycroft's voice was soft. "I shall be fine," he scanned her worried face, memorising her features. "Don't let the children be upset."

Lifting his eyebrows in sympathy, the man in the dark coat gestured to the front-door. "Time to go, Mr Holmes."

Cate followed behind, watching as they all got into a large dark-coloured four-wheel-drive. Out of fear – this was the second time she'd watched her husband been taken away - the registration of LA13 HJT was etched in her mind. She would call Greg Lestrade as well as Sherlock.

The vehicle had not even reached the corner at the end of the road before she had dialled her brother-in-law's number. It rang several times and Cate felt a wave of dread at the thought she might have to leave a message.

"Yes?"

_Thank Christ_.

"MI5 have just arrested Mycroft," in her anxiety, Cate almost stuttered down the phone. "He told me to call you."

"When?" Sherlock had no use for pleasantries.

"They left thirty seconds ago."

"Did they say why they were arresting him?" the younger Holmes needed data.

Cate felt her chest tighten.

"They said it was for _treason_,' she husked, her throat tightening to the point of pain. The arrest _had_ to be a mistake.

"_Ha!"_ Sherlock's exclamation of laughter shocked her back to a sense of normality. "Shows they have absolutely no idea what's going on," he said. "Mycroft might well be arrested for any number of things, but treason against the State would not be one of them," he added. "They've made a dreadful error of judgement."

"_Dreadful_?" Cate felt her heart beat a little harder at that. It sounded terrifying.

"Dreadful for the authorities once they realise the enormity of their blunder and have to deal with my brother's displeasure," he snorted with laughter, then stopped when he realised Cate had fallen silent.

"You are alarmed," he said, realising. "I'm sorry. Don't be."

"_How can I not be alarmed?_" Cate's voice rose. "Mycroft's just been arrested for treason by two very grim-looking men from MI5! How the _bloody hell_ am I supposed not to be alarmed!"

"Hold on," Sherlock sounded perfectly calm. "John and I can be there in fifteen minutes. Less, perhaps."

"Yes, come over and please explain to me why I should not be incredibly upset," Cate was glad the children were asleep. She was anxious enough herself without having to cope with crying babies.

"Make tea," Sherlock ended the call.

The traffic must have been forgiving that evening as the two of them appeared at the door in significantly less than the designated fifteen minutes.

"Thank God," Cate ushered them both in.

"Tea?" Sherlock followed her pointed finger and headed directly for the kitchen, as John rested a hand on her shoulder and inspected her face.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

She squeezed his arm, smiling wanly but shook her head. "Not really." Half of her wanted to weep and wring her hands. The other half wanted to go out and visit an inordinate amount of righteous violence upon whomever it was saying these terrible things about her husband.

Instead, she'd made tea and a snack, as she had a feeling she wasn't going to be eating anything for a while. She'd also called Mrs Compton to come over if she could, and, at the last minute, had called Greg Lestrade.

Nora Compton was entirely agreeable to stay over with the children for a few days and would be there within the half-hour. Lestrade had been _enroute_ to the pub, but agreed to come around; cabs at this time of the evening would take twenty-minutes. Cate had given him the licence-plate of the car Mycroft and the men from MI5 had driven away in.

"Tea and toasted fruit loaf and cheese, biscuits and pickles," Cate nodded to the waiting mugs and plates. "I had to do something while I waited for you,' she muttered, sinking into a chair by the table, she felt her stomach roil with tension. John smiled gratefully and dived in. Sherlock poured himself a mug of tea.

"What do I do?" she asked, looking between the two of them. "Do I call our solicitors? Do I chase MI5? What?"

Grabbing the mug and a piece of cheese, Sherlock sat in the seat opposite and nibbled.

"I know you have a good memory," he nodded, waving the cheese at her. "But how well is it working tonight?"

"Reasonably well, I think," she sighed wearily. "Although I admit to feeling a bit frayed around the edges. Ask me what you need to know."

"Can you tell me exactly what was said both by the MI5 agents and by my brother?"

Taking a slow, deep breath and pushing her thoughts back twenty-minutes; Cate re-envisaged the scene as it unfolded in the hallway and the kitchen. She faithfully repeated every word and tone and nuance that she remembered.

"And Mycroft said exactly that?" Sherlock was insistent. "_Everything must be seen to be done according to the rules_."

"Yes," she nodded slowly. "Exactly that."

"Then Mycroft knows he's being watched and is playing with them," Sherlock sat back and looked thoughtful. "The question is, what is the game and who are the other players?"

The front door opened, and Cate heard Nora Compton's quiet call as she came in with a small overnight bag in her hand.

"Thank you for dropping everything and coming over, Nora, you are a wonder," Cate hugged the older woman. "There's a problem with Mycroft and I may have to be out of the house a fair bit. I need someone to be with the children."

"It's no trouble at all," Nora patted Cate's arm. "Is there anything I can do to help Mr Mycroft?" she asked, hesitatingly. "If there's ever anything, then you only need but ask, you know that, don't you?"

"You're part of the family and Mycroft and I both know that, Nora, but there's nothing except looking after the twins when I'm out."

"Right then," the housekeeper nodded. "I'll just pop myself up into one of the spare rooms, shall I?"

Almost immediately after Nora had gone upstairs, the doorbell rang, and Cate ran back to let Greg in.

"You okay?" he asked immediately, searching her face. Lestrade had become almost resigned that his life was inextricably bound up the Holmes line and treated their family emergencies almost as his own, these days.

Exhaling slowly, Cate smiled with a little more conviction. "I'm so glad you were able to come, Greg," Cate held the tall Londoner's arm and guided him along to the kitchen where he nodded an unsurprised greeting at Sherlock and John.

"So what the bloody hell's going on?" Lestrade accepted a mug of tea. "I checked that registration number you gave me on the way over and it simply says that it's a Crown vehicle and nothing more; not where it's registered or when, nothing. So that's not a lot of help, I'm afraid."

"It confirms that the British Security services are involved, though," Sherlock nodded. "None of the security service cars are registered beyond the fact that they're government, all the others usually have a departmental designation as well."

"I have no doubt that both the men and their car are exactly what they were made out to be," Cate rested her head in her hands. "I still don't understand why they might think Mycroft has committed treason. He's probably more loyal to the Monarchy and the State than Prince Philip, for God's sake."

Sherlock stood and touched a finger to her shoulder. "You know Mycroft is involved in all sorts of international negotiations and treaties," he said. "That someone wants him out of the way is pretty much par for the course in his job: he upsets a lot of people by doing the precise opposite of what they want him to do," Sherlock smiled slightly, looking down at his sister-in-law's tense face. "I'm somewhat surprised this doesn't happen on a more regular basis."

"That may be," Cate started to pace across the kitchen floor. "But it doesn't help me much right _now_," she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "I need to find out more information. Is there anyone obviously connected to MI5 that I can contact, or do I have to go about this in a less open manner?"

"What do you mean?" Greg folded his arms. "Less open?"

"Do they have a public number I can ring, or someone I can go and see? An office or something? Or do I have to use a private contact to find out what's happening inside British security?" Cate started to feel angry again. "Because I will," she stood up suddenly, a furious heat in her face. "In a heartbeat, if it lets me help Mycroft, and I don't much care who gets pissed-off in the process."

"I doubt you'll even be able to find him unless they want you to," Sherlock leaned back against the granite bench top. "Far less help him. MI5 aren't noted for their forthcoming manner."

"Then I need a way to make them tell me," Cate stood up to her full height. "And I think I know how to do just that."

"Going on Twitter to proclaim Mycroft's innocence might not be the most productive method," John attempted levity.

"All I need to do it make one call," Cate gave John a look. "But if Mycroft's being investigated for treason, it's odds-on all our phones are being monitored, and this is probably not a call he'd want to have logged, which is why," she strode over to a series of kitchen drawers, unearthing a small black box. "He made sure he always had some of these," she added, tipping half-a-dozen disposable mobile phones onto the granite counter. Picking up the first one, Cate rummaged in her bag, finding her own phone. Flicking to the contacts list, she keyed a number into the cheap plastic phone and hit 'call'.

Frowning, Sherlock looked at his sister-in-law, but she ignored him, waiting for her call to be connected. _Oh please, answer the phone. Please_.

A familiar booming voice offered a brief greeting, and Cate sighed in relief for the second time that night. Immediately launching into rapid and flowing Russian, she advised her subject of the reason for her call and asked if it were possible to meet that evening. She very much needed his advice.

At the sound of flowing Slavic vowels, John and Greg met each other's eyes with an identical expression, eyebrows raised. Sherlock frowned harder. Though his Russian was not as fluent at Cate's, he was entirely able to understand her conversation. She was speaking to a friend, a Russian, and she was asking for his help.

"Is that wise?" his lifted an eyebrow when she finished the call. "Your husband is arrested for treason and you immediately call the Russian Ambassador?"

"I told you it was Mycroft's suggestion," Cate rejected the implied criticism. "My husband has been falsely – you said so yourself – accused of treason; MI5 employees have taken him away in bloody _handcuffs_, without so much as a hint where he might be going; nobody, especially me, knows anything about anything, except that said husband believes I'm smart enough to work it all out by myself. _Therefore_," Cate took a deep breath before grabbing her bag, her phone, a couple of the disposable phones. "I am going to start working it out the only way I know how."

"And how's that?" Lestrade stuck his hands in his pockets.

"_Research_." Cate took another deep breath.

###

At this time of evening, it took precisely sixteen-minutes and thirty-four seconds for the car to travel from the Culross Street townhouse to the headquarters of MI5 in Thames House, adjacent to Lambeth Bridge. Mycroft felt a brief _frisson_ as the four-by-four drove past _that_ particular landmark.

The entire journey had been conducted in utter silence, Mycroft utilising the time to recall the current whereabouts of those of his adversaries sufficiently intelligent, positioned and powerful enough to put such a play into the field. After dismissing certain governments – _too divided_ – and several political affiliations of dubious derivation – _too ineffectual_, he could think of only four parties: three men and one woman, who might be able to muster the necessary resources for such a coup. Each of them had much to gain, both in their professional, political lives, as well as in their ability to sleep better at night, if he were no longer – politically – in a state of grace. It would make perfect sense for any or all of them to attempt his downfall, and it was quite feasible that any, or all of them, had conspired in his removal. His eyebrows twitched briefly at the thought of the effort that must have been expended in order to pull off such an operation. Of the planning, the technology, the bribes. It was almost amusing. Whoever it was, must desire his demise with an intensity akin to genuine passion. His eyebrows twitched again. Too much passion rendered the mind immoderate in thought and deed. As the car pulled into a discreet side-entrance, he smiled again. It would be an intriguing exercise merely to choose where to begin his investigation.

However: first things first.

As it was now full-dark, the entirety of Thames House was alight, allowing them to transition without problem from the darkening car-park and one of the less-observed entrances.

"This way, Mr Holmes, if you please," the obviously more senior of his two escorts directed him politely towards an inconspicuous doorway. Entering, there was a dim landing, with painted stone stairways leading both up and down. He raised an eyebrow.

"Down, sir," the man gestured to the dimly-lit stairwell below.

Reaching another landing which evolved into a bare passageway, Mycroft found himself walking along a corridor of what could only be described as _cells_. If the inside of these closed rooms were anything like the outside, then they would be small, cramped, spartan and bleakly functional. Pausing before an entrance to his left, the senior MI5 agent opened the door and indicated inwards. Mycroft obliged.

Once inside, it was difficult to resist the smile that threatened to crawl across his face.

The room was bare, save for a plain table and three chairs. The table was off to one side slightly, allowing two of the chairs to face one-another without obstruction, with the third available for an observer. It was hardly necessary to look for the cameras or the microphones; he knew exactly where they were. He had designed the layout of these rooms himself. They were going to try and interrogate him. How quaint.

"Take a seat, Mr Holmes," the leading agent directed. "Someone will be along very shortly to have a little chat with you, no doubt."

"No doubt," Mycroft took his designated seat, crossing his legs. He spent the ensuing several minutes comparing the Paris and Dresden versions of _Tannhäuser_; after all these years, he was still in two minds over the ballet scene.

"Good evening Mr Holmes," a tall, younger man with an easy smile came in and, dropping a suspiciously solid-looking file onto the table with a loud thud, took the seat opposite. "My name is Jon Smith, but you may call me Jon, if you wish."

Mycroft recognised him immediately: the administrative assistant who had accompanied Laura Croft for the examination of the letters. _Aha. Something interesting here_.

"John Smith?" Mycroft's tone was mild and barely questioning.

The newcomer raised his eyes and crossed his legs. "Without the 'h'," he said. "My parents were free-thinkers and hippies. _Yes_," he half-smiled.

"I would like to thank you for allowing me to visit these rooms," Mycroft's own smile matched the man's open expression. "I've not been able to see them in actual extancy since I designed them, and that would be more than ten years ago," he looked around. "You've looked after the place very well."

"You designed these interrogation rooms?" Smith sounded dubious.

Nodding easily, Mycroft didn't even bother to make a pretence of looking around.

"Eight by ten; solid door; sound-dampening insulation; pastel wall colour, thick, waterproof carpeting; temperature-controlled; three wireless digilant 3.7 millimetre, nine-volt external powered video-transmitters; two embedded four condenser microphones; one personal thermal alarm; one night-vision camera and transmitter, one bio-sensitive monitor."

Glancing at the steel table off to his right, Mycroft smiled again. "You've even managed to keep the good old bio-therm conduction furniture," he sat back, faintly cheerful. "It's comforting to see my MI5 colleagues still respect the old days," he added, turning, his eyes wide and – almost – innocent, towards his putative interrogator.

"I have to ask you a number of questions, you know that, sir."

"Call me Mycroft, dear boy," the elder Holmes relaxed back into the uncomfortable steel seat and linked his fingers in his lap, the handcuffs chinking softly, meaningfully, together.

Smith took in the view before him. _Mycroft Holmes_; Head of … who knew what; manacled, taken from his home; brought to a fairly worrisome place in security terms; left alone in an unprepossessing and intentionally disquieting room, and here he was, as gracious and polite as if he were in the Royal enclosure at Ascot. John had heard whispers about the _Iceman_, but the man in front of him wasn't cold; he simply wasn't _here_. Oh, his body was here, in the room, sitting in a hard, steel seat right opposite him, but the man's mind, his thoughts …

Smith took a sharp breath. This was not going down the way it was supposed to go.

"You are in very serious trouble, you realise?" he overcompensated with a brusque tone. "You admitted you signed those letters," he said, consulting the file.

"No, no, _no_," Mycroft leaned forward, shaking his head. "That's not the way you begin questioning anyone at my level with such advantages of information, authority and experience," he said, quietly. "Being pompous is the very last thing you need to be," he added. "Try for a more civil approach. Ask me, for instance, if I'd like some tea."

_Holmes was giving him interrogation tips?_

"Would you actually like some tea?" Smith looked inquiring. "I can arrange some if you wish."

"That would be pleasant,' Mycroft smiled. "Earl Grey for preference, or a first flush Darjeeling if not."

Both men knew the request had already been recorded and the tea would soon materialise.

"Very well, then, Mr Holmes," Smith opened the file.

"Mycroft, _please_."

"You know standard procedure forbids the use of personal names."

"Naturally. I participated in the creation of current interrogation protocols, therefore why don't we simply dispense with what you _think_ you want to ask me, thus relieving _me_ from the dreary process of obfuscation and the waste of so much valuable time, and, instead, let us deliberate on the matter actually at hand?"

Knowing he was straying very wide of the path, Smith was nevertheless curious. What matter did Holmes feel worthy of discussion if not the safety of his own skin?

"And what might that be, Mr Holm …_Mycroft?_"

Resting his linked fingers on his knee, the heavy steel curves clanked together, but Mycroft seemed oblivious, moving his hands as freely as if he were not chained at all.

"Who is attempting to destroy me?"

"You suggest that these letters are an attempt to frame you with acts of treason?" Smith sat back and assessed the face of the man before him. He had been told that Holmes was clever; subtle. _Dangerous_. He had been told not to let down his guard, not to let the urbane front of the man lure him from his objective, not to follow the will o' the wisp lights into dark and boggy places.

"Yes," Mycroft nodded. "I neither wrote nor signed these documents, and yet every test confirms that I did, that I, in fact, am the only person who could have done so," he sat back, a small _moue_ on his lips. "And yet, as I am certainly _not_ responsible for them, then somebody else is," he leaned forward again. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," he sighed quietly. "My brother applies this idiom to his deductions; never realising there is yet an additional level to the maxim."

Smith raised his eyebrows, curious.

"There may be more than one truth," Mycroft supplied, with a smile. "As is manifest in this instance."

"For the sake of argument," Smith paused as two cups of tea arrived. Indicating for the table to be moved closer to the … to Mycroft, "let us assume you are correct; that there is a conspiracy against you."

"_Better_," Mycroft nodded, sniffing and sipping his tea. "And what are the two primary questions in such an instance?"

"Who and why?"

"Indeed," Mycroft nodded again. "I have already been itemising who, but a precise equation is impossible at present as I am yet lacking an understanding of _why_: the two facts are somewhat co-dependent. When I have the one, I will also have the other."

"Would you care to enlighten me as to the possibilities?" Smith blew on his tea to cool it.

Mycroft looked at the younger man with care. Why had he accompanied the woman to his office in what was clearly a covert position? To be given the task of his interrogation suggested this man was experienced and senior, yet his role earlier in the day said something entirely different. A cover, then. Why would an unknown need a cover? _Ah_. Of course.

The woman, Croft, wasn't one of Morgan's protégés, Smith was.

"Why would I waste my time?" Mycroft inhaled his tea's fragrance. Not an altogether intolerable blend at such short notice. "You are already convinced of my guilt."

"Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I'm not quite convinced and am – what was it you said? – ah yes; eliminating the impossible." Jon sat back in his own uncomfortable seat. "Let's put aside the technical issues that tell me only you could have written those letters, and think who might have reason for MI5, and, probably others, to think that you wrote them."

"Very well," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "Let's."

###

Although it was pretty dark by the time she reached her destination, it was really only around the other side of Hyde Park, so the taxi-ride itself took less than ten-minutes.

She'd been told to go to a small black door around the corner from the main entrance and knock: someone would let her in.

The door was not easy to find even with all the bright street-lighting, but when she knocked, it opened almost immediately.

A small, dark-haired woman beckoned her in silently. Stepping inside, Cate became aware of the scents and smells of a large public building: this was not a home, but an institution. Massive oils on the walls portrayed the great Heroes of the Revolution; immense scenes of cultural upheaval and peasant revolt. Everything was gilded to within an inch of its life, and the whole atmosphere was stiff with protocol and history.

Up several flights of carpeted marble stairs and into a slightly less grand wing of the building, the art on the walls started to reflect a more personal taste.

"_Spasibo_," Cate thanked her guide who stopped, smiled and gestured Cate to a large double-door of the Rococo style. It was already half-open, so she knocked softly, peering into the semi-lit room as she did. A large figure rose from a wing-chair.

"_Ekaterina_," Peter Menshikov walked to her, his arms widening as if to embrace her enthusiastically, but he stopped short, contenting himself with touching his fingers to her shoulders, before leaning forward and kissing her gently on either cheek. "It has been too long since we have spoken, and we never did get to have that talk about the ballet, did we?"

"Excellency …" she began.

"Ah please, there can be no formality between us, my dear Cate," he said, guiding her to the chair opposite the one he'd just vacated.

She'd alternated between anger and panic in the taxi, but now she started to feel tired, and was glad to sit, waiting as he poured her a small glass of a ruby liqueur. She sipped and immediately felt a soft warmth steal its way through her body. It was delicious. She raised her eyes and smiled in question.

"It is called _Nalivka_ in my country," Peter sipped from his own glass. "It begins with a good cognac and ends with the fruits of the autumn harvest, so no two blends are ever exactly the same," he smiled back, glad that the spirit had replaced some of the colour in her face. "You said Mycroft was in trouble?"

"MI5 have arrested him for treason," she said baldly, too tired now to make it sound less stark.

"Ah, _so_," Menshikov nodded, almost to himself.

"You're not surprised?" Cate was taken aback at the Ambassador's pacific acceptance of the news.

Smiling briefly, Peter shook his head. "It is a situation that your husband and I have discussed on several occasions," he waggled a hand from side-to-side. "We wondered which one of us would be the first to fall."

"But you make it sound like an occupational _hazard_," Cate was stunned at the complacency of the man. "This is _treason_ we're discussing, not some overdue parking tickets."

Standing to pour her another glass of the red spirit, Menshikov looked at her upraised face in the dim lamplight. He sighed, returning to his chair.

"Tell me, Ekaterina," he said slowly. "How much do you actually know about your husband's work?"

"Mycroft's job?" she paused, thinking. "He works for the Home Office, some sort of Director. His department seem to handle all different sorts of problems, almost like a clearing-house." Cate sipped from her glass wondering where this conversation was going. "At least, that's what I've always believed, why?"

Making a face, as if considering how much he could say, Menshikov exhaled loudly as he made up his mind.

"Dearest Cate, your husband virtually _runs_ the British Government," the Russian sat back, linking his fingers across his stomach. "He doesn't work for the Home Office; most of the senior functionaries there report, indirectly, to _him_, as do their opposite numbers in other departments, even in the security services, although," Menshikov smiled ruefully, "very few of them would know that they do, or admit such knowledge if they had it."

He poured himself another small glass of cognac.

"Even the Home Secretary consults with him before so much as amending a line of procedure. He's HRM's Master Tactician, the Government's specialised omniscient."

It took a few moments for the information to sink into Cate's brain. "How do you know this?" she was bewildered. "How can you know this when I don't?"

"The more people who know, the more danger there is to him, as well as to the people he brings into his confidence, my dear girl," Peter shook his head a little sadly.

"But I'm his wife!" there had been too much to absorb and Cate was heading towards shock. "How can he not trust me? He said he'd never lied to me."

"Have you ever asked him outright to whom he reports and who reports to him?"

Shaking her head, Cate had to be honest and admit she never had. He'd always had some glib response whenever the conversation had moved in the direction of his work and responsibilities.

_'I sort out other peoples' mistakes.'_

_'Some of my work is national, some international. Mostly tedious.'_

_'You imagine me a Spymaster? I'm incredibly flattered.'_

Her heart thumping, though she was unsure if it were with fear or outrage, Cate sat and digested this revelation.

"He said he's never lied to me," she repeated. "But by treating me like this, by excluding me, that's effectively what he's done."

"Don't be so _naïve_," the sudden scorn in Menshikov's voice brought her out of her daze.

"_Naïve_?"

"Do you honestly imagine such a man as Mycroft, a man so utterly and completely enraptured by you, would do _anything_ that might seriously endanger a single hair on your head?" the Ambassador leaned forward in his chair, his expression almost angry.

"Don't you think it far more likely that this kind of a man would do everything in his not-inconsiderable power to protect you and the children and those close to him, from anything and everything that might stray from his work into his private life?"

Menshikov sat back and sighed. "You are not so foolish, Ekaterina, to imagine such things as _lies_. Why do you think he is so madly in love with you all this time?"

"I'm not sure I know anything now," Cate's head was spinning again. Everything she thought she knew was apparently something else.

"Because you are so determinedly clever and independent not to need all the answers; because you gave him your heart without asking questions and because you had enough faith in him to trust without reservation." Menshikov sighed again. "And I have envied him ever since he told me this."

"Mycroft told you these things?" Cate felt her eyes burn. _Why hadn't he told her too?_

"It was in a moment of self-doubt," the Ambassador nodded at the expression on her face. "He is not the kind of man to discuss such intimate details of his life, but he was very sad; you had left him."

_Ah, God. The situation with al Badour's daughter._

"I did not leave him," Cate whispered. "I would never leave him."

"And yet, he was sad and he talked to me of these things, and despite his sadness, I still envy him," Menshikov smiled.

Cate sat back and took a deep breath. It didn't really matter right now what Mycroft had told her and what he hadn't. She had to find out where he was and then do whatever was needed to get him home.

"Do you know where they will have taken him?" she asked, in a calmer voice.

"Thames House is the usual place, to begin with," Menshikov pursed his lips. "That is MI5's base-camp, although once their interrogation begins, they could take him to any number of places. It depends."

"Depends on what?"

Shrugging elegantly, Menshikov raised his eyebrows. "On whether he tells them what they want to know, or how much of a security risk they think he is. He knows a very great deal, don't forget."

"Who is in charge of MI5?" Cate felt herself move slowly into analysis-mode, where all information was quantitative, where everything was data; cold, without emotion. _Objective_.

"His name is Davis Morgan and he is a bureaucrat who likes everything in his world to conform, to be neat and uniform. He does not like your husband for these reasons."

"But Mycroft is almost exactly those things," Cate began, confused.

"Are you sure?" the Russian's eyebrows rose again.

No; she wasn't sure. In fact, now that she actually thought about it, Cate realised that Mycroft wasn't at all like that.

Not neat, but _precise_.

Not uniform, but _consistent_.

Not conformity but a blaze of individuality in everything he did; in his every thought. An ache throbbed through her at a sudden need for him.

"What do I have to do to help secure his release?" Cate looked up suddenly, her eyes dark and focused. "I'll do it, whatever it is," she said.

"There is nothing you can do, _Ekaterina_," the Ambassador shook his head. "If you try and force your way through to him, they will shut you out and laugh at you in the process. If you go to the newspapers, they will stop the release; if you attempt to use social media, they will seize your accounts, all of them, including your financial ones. They may even threaten to take your children."

"Then if I cannot approach this matter head-on," Cate muttered, "there is _always_ a back-door: there must be some way I can work to prove his innocence."

"There is only one way to help your husband clear his name," Menshikov sounded philosophical. "But that too, is impossible."

"And what way is that?" Cate decided she would be the one who judged things impossible or not.

"If Mycroft is not guilty of the things MI5 believe he has done, then you need to find out who is. Who is attempting to frame him."

"I will gladly try and do this," she shook her head, helplessly. "But I would have no idea where to start."

"You would do this for him?" the Russian sounded sceptical. "You would risk yourself, put yourself in danger for his sake?"

Frowning at the questions as if they were gibberish, she nodded, slowly. "Of course I would, in a second," she looked up, still confused. As if she had any choice. "He is my life."

Menshikov sighed heavily and smiled. "Such a fortunate man, your husband," he said, getting to his feet. "Then let us try and save him, shall we?"

###

They were still in the small interrogation room, but the handcuffs were things of distant memory, and the steel table had been pulled into the middle of the room to accommodate the extra people around it, of whom there were now two.

In addition to Smith, there was a quiet, efficient-looking woman with a laptop, who pulled information out of the ether whenever they asked for it, and the woman Croft had joined them as well, her initial scepticism fading in the rapid tides of argument and supposition.

All well and good," Smith sat back, folding his arms across his chest. "But who are these four people who you argue might be at the foot of this conspiracy, assuming it _is_ a conspiracy, of course."

"I am unable to divulge their specific details until I am closer to comprehending which of them, or which _combination_ of them are involved," Mycroft looked apologetic. "Each individual inhabits an extremely delicate position within a sphere of influence which is, shall we say, less than welcoming to Britain's official stance in certain areas. If I openly expose the wrong one, not only will their informational value be rendered moot, but their safety will be equally jeopardised. I am unwilling risk lives needlessly without additional rationale."

"Informational value?" Croft raised her eyebrows. "Informants? _Spies_?"

Mycroft looked pained. "Spy is such an emotive noun."

"But you have your own network?" Smith was almost grinning. "How in Christ's name can you run a private stable of agents without us knowing about it?"

Fixing the younger man with a tolerant look, Mycroft's expression was salutary.

"Who is 'us'?" he asked, quietly.

"_Us_, MI5, the internal British Security Service, _Us_," Smith lifted his hands in the air.

"Are you quite sure 'Us' does not know?" Mycroft set about pouring himself a cup from the fresh pot of tea.

About to protest, Smith shut his mouth instead and thought. What if Holmes' situation _was_ known, but the information simply hadn't been made available to him? What if all of this was by way of a test? It had been done before. In which case, the only thing he could do was to go by the book. He looked around the room: the book had already vanished, it seemed.

As Jon was about to raise the possibility that there might be some connection between these mysterious informants and interested parties inside the UK, the door opened abruptly, and the two agents who'd brought Holmes here stepped inside, their faces suggesting a singular unhappiness.

"Just had this sent to us," the first one through the door offered Smith a slim folder.

Flicking it open, Jon scanned the few pages inside with increasing disbelief. Just when he had almost started to believe …

He turned to stare coldly at the well-dressed man in the chair.

"Apparently the rumours were correct, Mr Holmes," he said pointedly. "You'll do anything to achieve your objectives." Smith dropped the folder onto the table beside Mycroft's arm.

Mystified, Mycroft pulled the papers towards him, his eyes already flying across the details.

Lines of monetary transactions; substantial sums of money from his account sent as disbursement across Europe. Names, dates, payments, it was all there, with his name as the spider in the centre of a financial web of deceit.

Inhaling slowly, even Mycroft had to admit it was a very cleverly engineered piece of work. Whoever was responsible had a vast range of skilled people at their disposal.

"And there's this, too," the agent by the door handed Smith two sheets of paper. On one, there was a name and an address, followed by a brief series of dated rent payments. The other sheet was a black-and-white photograph.

"Does the address of 231 Redcliffe Road, Chelsea, sound familiar, Mr Holmes?" Smith's tone was now radically different from their earlier conversations.

"Other than as a London-specific address, it has no particular meaning for me," Mycroft's eyes were narrowed, waiting.

"It seems to be the residence of one Ms Sharon Bithall, a most attractive young lady."

"And you know this because?" Mycroft held his breath. He already knew what was coming. _But it was impossible_.

Smith held the photograph directly in front of his eyes so that Mycroft could not fail to grasp the entire content in all its black-and-white glory.

A photo of himself and the attractive Ms Bithall in what could only be described as a compromising situation. The near complete lack of clothing in the image leaving little to the imagination in terms of complicity or intent.

"So, Mr Holmes," Smith threw the papers and the photograph onto the table in a mood approaching disgust. "Not only a traitor, but an adulterer and a fraud?"

Lacking anything productive to offer, Mycroft remained silent.

"Thought so," Smith inhaled slowly. "No point keeping you here, then, so we may as well make you comfortable somewhere a bit more long-term."

Standing as the handcuffs were once again clasped around his wrists, Mycroft was curious as to where they might be taking him now.

At his question, Smith laughed unsympathetically.

"Somewhere you'll be nice and safe, as safe as the Crown jewels, in fact," he scowled and left the room.

Mycroft sighed in frustrated dismay.

They were taking him to the Tower.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_Preparing for Battle – The Meaning of Desks – Friends in Low Places – Breaking and Entering – Room Four – All the World's a Stage._

#

#

The Tower of London was built following the Norman invasion of Britain in 1066, becoming an instant symbol of power and fear. In addition to the visible battlements, many dungeons and dark secrets were hidden below its cobbled squares. In the nearly one-thousand years of the Tower's existence, it had been breached, blitzed and burned. Several parts were also extensively _rebuilt_ at different times, most recently after World War Two when, under cover of the 1940's London-wide renaissance, extensive ground works were undertaken within the Tower holdings. Almost all of this work was below ground.

_Repairing the foundations_, it was said.

Among those who know of the Tower's comparatively recent secrets, it is still a place of power and fear.

In the time it took to drive from Horseferry Road to Tower Bridge, Mycroft had deleted two potential suspects from his already abridged list of four. The woman was dismissed because she lacked the financial resources to pull off an operation of this enormity. Whoever was behind this must possess significant funds and would not quibble over an extra million or three in bribes and … incentives. One of the men was likewise absolved, since his sporadic alliance and enmity was purely in the political arena. Engaging in fiscal legerdemain and candid photography was not his style – theirs was an erratic relationship of political principle, not personal malevolence.

This left two avenues of investigation, and neither would be simple.

The first possibility was Emiliano Trentini. A tremendously wealthy Italian industrialist, inheriting his capital from a family involvement in steel.

Given that the incriminating letters had been discovered in the possession of a fellow countryman, the connection seemed obvious. _Perhaps too obvious?_ A double-bluff? Trentini was clever, although sufficiently indiscreet to have been connected to the Mafia on numerous occasions yet still managing to buy his way out of trouble. His dislike of Mycroft was two-fold: one, a disagreement regarding European currency laws Mycroft had publically supported at an economic summit following the first global financial crisis, and two; the veto Mycroft had arranged in Europarl regarding trans-European unionisation. Both these actions had cost the Italian dearly, but worse, after his grandstanding protests had come to a very _public_ nothing, Trentini had become a laughing-stock, not a state the Italian would have easily endured.

He would savour any scheme that resulted in Mycroft's fall from grace, and had the resources and the muscle to realise such a plan. Getting anywhere near the Italian would not only be dangerous, but nigh impossible.

The second was Andrew Munro, Earl of Tain, with vast holdings in North Sea resources and, contrary though it might seem, an obsession with Highlands conservation.

He and Munro had crossed swords on numerous occasions, not simply in the economic realm. Munro was a leading advocate in Scottish independence and, while Mycroft was not obstructive to the movement, he _was_ a voice of caution. Knowing than excessive haste threatened to rip the political fabric of Britain's joint-governance apart, Mycroft had advocated a judicious approach and in doing so, generated a fierce enmity within the Scot. That Munro's peerage required him to meet certain obligations to the Crown made for a personal friction between he and Mycroft which was exacerbated by the prerequisite for Home Office support in his conservation Bills. Munro needed Mycroft's assistance as much as he loathed asking for it, and the Peer had frequently demanded Holmes' resignation, furious when it was not forthcoming.

Both Munro and Trentini wanted his head, if not literally, then in some symbolic manner. Both had the wherewithal to orchestrate the present scenario, and neither would hesitate for a moment if some effort on their part would see their nemesis brought down. The problem now, of course, was to establish which one was responsible for the documents which had initiated this debacle. That they were discovered in Italy suggested an obvious connection, which was suspicious for that very reason. Whoever was going to such lengths to incriminate him would hardly be foolish enough to leave a trail of breadcrumbs.

Mycroft noted their vehicle was on Tower Gate approach, indicating right and about to move across into St. Katherine's Way, the opposite direction to the Tower. The reason for this was clear as the car circled back into an inconspicuous, barred underpass beneath St Katherine's, giving the appearance of a large culvert. At a flicker of headlights, the bars lifted and concealed steel doors parted, allowing the vehicle inside. Closing immediately after, the entrance was concealed once again but at this time of night, in the dark, Mycroft doubted there would have been any to see.

Now inside a moderate-sized tunnel, well lit and maintained, Mycroft knew precisely where they were going and how long it would take to arrive. He sat back in the comfortable leather seat and closed his eyes, the better to think through the greater problem.

Casting a sideways glance, Smith experienced, once again, an unwanted wave of respect for the man. Clearly a bastard of the first water, Holmes nevertheless exuded a personal élan that almost eclipsed his wrongdoings. It would be interesting to see how he held up under what was undoubtedly going to be an extensive series of interviews. Jon wondered how long it would take to break him; it could be a long job.

But they would break him. They always did.

Somehow and strangely, that knowledge didn't sit as well with him as it should. There was something about Holmes that made one wary, even in the light of his current disgrace.

Though his eyes were closed, Mycroft sensed the disquiet of the younger man beside him. He smiled in the darkness of the car: this was how one learned; by the making and correction of one's mistakes. Mr Smith was about to be educated.

###

Guiding Cate into his private study, Peter Menshikov ushered her to an ornate chair in front of a massive desk. She smiled. Early in their marriage, when the nights were sometimes not long enough, she and Mycroft would drink champagne and tell each other stories in the semi-dark. He had regaled her one night with an analysis of _deskery_ inside the British Government. One might discern the character of the desk's owner, he'd said, by the desk itself and had gone on to prove it, using her own as an example.

"Tell me," wrapped in a long robe beside him, she laughed, sceptical.

Mycroft stroked his fingers through her hair, pleased she was amused.

"First look at the size and general shape of the thing," he said. "See how your desk is proportionately long and deep? These proportions satisfy the eye because they follow the quantities of the Golden Ratio, even if you didn't realise this," he paused, scanning her features, "it reflects you," he added. "You have an innate admiration of spatial order," his eyes flickered across her face, her nearness warming him again. He had never _wanted_ like this before.

"Look at the style," he soldiered on. "It's entirely functional, without ornamentation or decoration," he gazed into her brown-jade eyes as they continued to humour him. "Yet the quality of the construction and patina of the wood are very agreeable. It's entirely a working desk," he smiled. "There is nothing about this piece of furniture that is impractical or inelegant, despite its unpretentious design, yet it is beautiful, just as is its owner," he paused, smiling again. "Now tell me what you see."

She'd done as he bid and turned to look at her desk.

It was sturdy, dark wood, exactly six-feet-six long and four-feet-four deep; big enough to hold a decent sized canvas, or two violins and double-sheets of music; sufficiently solid to lie on, staring at the ceiling when inspiration failed; sufficiently strong to stand on, to see the work from a different perspective. It was, as he said, a working desk; a desk-in-progress, as everyday usage left faint scars and dents and scratches.

At one end, there was a printer, at the other a small shredder, in between, a sleek laptop and tiny, plug-in speakers and could be cleared completely in less than ten-seconds if the entire surface was required. It was a desk serious in its intent to produce work, but, she thought, reflected almost nothing about her, speaking only of the desk's purpose.

"This desk says nothing about me," she argued as he wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her against the dark cloth of his dressing-gown. "It a desk, that's all."

"Not all, my sweet," he brought her around to his front, inhaling her perfume and resisting the urge to kiss her laughter away. "It tells me everything important about you, _everything_."

"Such as?" she watched his eyes darken and felt her muscles tense.

"Such as the owner of this desk is not interested in what anyone thinks of her, and it's almost definitely a _her_, of average size, given the height of the chair's seat from the floor. This woman is so focused on her work, that everything is sacrificed to it: luxury, elegance, even comfort, for surely no woman of that height has arms long enough to reach both the printer and the shredder without getting up from the seat each time. The span of the desktop is critical to the task at hand, usually tasks involving reading and paperwork and painting, as can be seen by the tiny flakes of silk and shellac from book spines as they have been repeatedly opened and closed. Also in the traces of paper residue in the cut grooves in the surface of the wood, as well as the multiple overlays of paint-spatters that speak of repeated and long-term abuse. This is the desk of an academic and an artist, and I adore her beyond reason."

"Academic _and_ artist?"

He stroked two fingers down the side of her face, then touched them to the desktop, tracing along several deeply-scored lines.

"A lack of décor on an artist's desk suggests the individual is intent upon production, rather than the _appearance_ of production, this speaks of intelligence and focus." He pointed to a number of permanent doodles and numbers scrawled on the front left quarter of the desktop. "These inked page-number notations on the wood itself tell me the academic takes her work very seriously, almost obsessively, having no time for anything that distracts her from her thoughts, even to the point of vandalising the surface of her own desk rather than stopping in order to locate some scrap paper … I love you," Mycroft's voice was husky.

"I love you too," Cate smiled gloriously into the darkest of blue eyes, her hands sliding up his back. "Very seriously, almost obsessively, in fact."

Struggling for equanimity, Mycroft had breathed deep and plodded on.

"… And that the owner of this desk is a person of deep sensibilities and passion can be seen by the numerous dents and scuffs to the front left-hand side where she has struck the wood repeatedly, and with various implements judging by the size and shape of the indentations, in moments of frustration; that they are to her left argues a left-handed person, which in turn posits deep creativity and breadth of thought and…_ah_, _God_, _Cate_, you drive me mad," his arms had wrapped around her then, removing the gap between them as he sought her mouth.

Smiling again at the memory, she cast an assessing eye over the Ambassador's desk. Massive, elegant, ornate; the front panels beautifully wrought and decorated in stained, carved inlay of precious woods. A desk made to impress, to keep people away.

_But only from the front_.

Before she sat, Cate had observed the half of the desk closest to its user. Plain, uncluttered, expansive. It was a piece designed to give an impression of one thing, while all the time being something else entirely. Just like Peter Menshikov, she realised.

"So where do I begin?" she asked, settling down in the plush chair. "As I apparently have no real idea of my husband's work, I am utterly at a loss as to how this situation has come about, or who might be responsible."

"It wouldn't be politically-motivated," the Russian mused. "The British monarchy is so entrenched and impenetrable that no political body or movement in its right mind would attempt to set Mycroft up as a traitor for purely political reasons, so it would have to be something along more personal lines," he paused and looked thoughtful. "Some individual or group of individuals creating the appearance of treasonous behaviour but only as a cover for the real motive, which must be to destabilise Mycroft himself, or some major project for which he's responsible."

Menshikov turned to her. "He has said nothing to you about any who desire his downfall?"

Cate considered. Mycroft had been so very careful not to say much of anything to her about his work, a fact about which they would have a long discussion once this mess was sorted out. Now that Pandora's Box had been opened to her, she would no longer accept such exclusion from his life. But there was truly nothing she could remember him saying that might be useful.

"Nothing, really … _although_ …" Cate suddenly realised there might be a way to find out more. The idea now in her mind shocked her by its very occurrence. Her skin prickled.

"What is it?" Menshikov realised she'd thought of something.

"Mycroft has a safe full of private files," she said. "He calls them his Ultra files. I have the combination to the safe to get at my jewellery."

"Can you access his files?" the Ambassador raised his eyebrows. "If he keeps them at home, they may well be more useful than anything there is in his department, which MI5 would have by now, in any case."

"I don't know if I can get into his files, they're sealed, but I think I know someone who could."

"Then you must decide if you are ready to read your husband's private papers," Menshikov looked wary. "It is not an act that may be undone."

"If it'll help me help Mycroft, I'm not going to worry too much about the consequences," she stood, itching to be on her way now there was something practical she could do. "I should go."

Walking with her back down the grand staircases to the small side-door, the tall Russian leaned over her hand, ghosting his lips across her skin.

"If there is ever any other kind of help that I might offer you, Ekaterina," he said, quietly. "You must promise me now, that you will ask for it."

Looking up into his eyes, shadowed in the dim lighting, she saw, for a moment, something that might have been more than friendship. She squeezed his fingers.

"You are a true friend," she murmured. "But I must go."

"But you will ask if you need my help?"

"I will ask," Cate nodded, slipping through the small door.

Watching her walk swiftly down the road to hail a taxi, Peter Menshikov felt a wave of an emotion he chose to call envy. Mycroft Holmes was more fortunate that he would ever know.

In the cab, Cate called Sherlock.

"Where are you now?" she asked.

"Still at your place, waiting for you to get home safely: my brother would be unhappy, I think if I didn't at least make a _show_ of concern."

"I'm glad you're there," Cate was relieved. She hadn't really wanted to drag him all the way over from Baker Street twice in one night. "I have a little job for you."

"Indeed?" Sherlock's drawl suggested a suspicion of the mundane.

"I want you to break into Mycroft's secret files."

###

Greg Lestrade had not been idle. Calling in a favour – a clamping he'd made go away for a mate who worked nights maintaining the electrical utilities in Thames House – he'd been able to discover the lower interrogation rooms had been cleared out and everyone warned away from the place on pain of pain, as some big cheese was being _entertained_ that evening.

It wasn't hard to put two and two together and come up with Mycroft Holmes. With a little bit of luck, maybe they'd allow a DI. In to talk to the … prisoner.

Apparently though, the _stay out_ notice had just been rescinded and things were back to normal. It looked like the VIP had been taken elsewhere.

"You got any idea where that elsewhere might be?" Greg kept his tone casual.

"If you weren't a Copper, we wouldn't be having this conversation, you realise," his friend stated. "And no: I am not sure where they've taken this person, whoever it was, although …"

"Although, _what_?"

"I had a call from an oppo of mine asking if I had some spare coaxial CT cable, as he'd been given a rush job to set up an important gig at work and nobody else was around at this time of the night."

"And where does your mate work, then?" Lestrade clamped down on his impatience.

"Oh, he's a Sparky over at the Tower," Greg's friend sounded perfectly relaxed.

"_Tower_? Which tower?" Lestrade was running through a mental list of London towers. There were quite a few.

His friend snorted. "Not _a _tower," he said. "_The_ Tower," he said, "of _London_."

As a cold wave of realisation washed over him, Greg swore softly.

If Mycroft was in Tower, no way _anyone_ was getting to him without official sanction.

Not even a DI. From the Yard.

###

"You are seriously going to open Mycroft's files?" John was grinning madly.

"What's he going to do, shoot me? Have me put in gaol?" Cate was unwavering, remembering Mycroft's strange little smile as he bade her goodbye. "Besides, it was he who announced I'd work this out for myself, and that's precisely what I intend to do," she turned to Sherlock. "If you're not up for this, once you've cracked the secondary combination, then please just leave, and I'll take all the blame," she paused. "I don't want this to come between the two of you."

"Are you _insane_?" the younger Holmes stared at her. "The opportunity to investigate my brother's most secret dealings, and you suggest I might not want to risk the fallout?" The grin on his face was not precisely wolfish, but there was a definite hint of canine.

"Very well, then," Cate sighed. "But you must give me your _absolute_ word of honour that you will never discuss anything you might see with anyone beyond the four of us; I need your promise, Sherlock, or this stops here."

His face stilled. "You would take my word on this?" he asked, quietly.

Cate nodded, tiredly. "My dearest Brother-in-law," she leaned her head against his arm for a second. "I trust you with the life of my children, so _yes_: your promise is acceptable."

Staring at her for a few seconds, Sherlock seemed to be making up his mind.

"Very well, then," he clapped his hands. "Show me Mycroft's files."

Leading the way quietly past both the nursery and Nora's room, Cate brought them into the master bedroom.

"It's through a door in the dressing room," she spoke softly. "It's right next to the children's bathroom. Don't make a noise."

Nodding, Sherlock and John followed her past the rails of clothes.

"_Jesus_," the doctor stopped for a moment. "Just how many suits does one man need?" he whistled beneath his breath, taking in Mycroft's immaculately arrayed sartorial splendour.

"_John_," Cate hissed, beckoning. "_Through here_." The mirrored-door swung inwards, revealing the small storage-room beyond and Mycroft's safe.

"_Ah_," Sherlock's face brightened at the straightforward combination lock. "Tann Banker. Monolithic five-inch steel; drill and torch resistant alloys in slab formation, reinforced against delamination attack by a heavy steel reinforced grid interlocked at each corner to give a continuous protective cage embedded within Adamantium," he nodded. "Typical Mycroft. It would take a tank shell to get into this without the combination."

"I have the outer one," Cate murmured, kneeling and turning the dial through its various stops. The heavy door opened silently, revealing three inner levels: a narrow top shelf, home to deeds and documents, each bound with pink legal tape. A second, deeper shelf lent four of its six compartments to her jewellery boxes, while the last two housed bundles of currency and various intriguing boxes. She had no idea what was inside them.

The final and largest section was a separately-locked row of steel-caged files. These were Mycroft's private documents, each one encased in its own steel folder. The cage itself had an electronic alpha-numeric key pad attached to the left hand side. Once the correct code was entered, it would allow an articulated steel bar to move either way, allowing just enough room to slide out one file at a time. Sherlock checked. Any attempt to force any of the elements in the safe's protective circuit and the files would be destroyed, he could see the small chemical bolts at the top of each file, of which there were thirty.

"This will be fun," Sherlock sat on the floor and considered possible codes. These Tann key-pads used a ten letter-digit combination with possibilities in the millions, so there was no point experimenting. Unless he could establish the correct code before attempting to open the file-safe, it would be foolish to waste his time.

What password would his brother have used?

Knowing Mycroft, the code would be changed monthly, probably on the same day of the month in each case. As this was the first week of the month, it made sense to assume the password was new. What alpha-numeric password would his brother have incorporated into the code in the last week?

Turning his gaze inward to his mind-palace, Sherlock trawled through likely possibilities. The Twins' birthday? Too obvious. Their names then? No; wouldn't fit. Something appropriate to the month of August? What had happened in August? Woodstock? Barack Obama born? Marilyn Monroe died? No, no and _no_. Signing of the Declaration of Independence? _Possibly_. He shook his head. These things were all well and good but nothing that Mycroft would consider _critical_.

_Ah, wait_.

Closing his eyes he sent his thoughts flying down a particular corridor, searching for a particular incident in the month of August …

_Of course_.

The question was did the date come first or last? What if there were two dates? Assume two: current month and year of event. He tapped in two digits, six letters and another two digits then pressed _enter_.

It clicked open with a small movement of high-grade steel.

"Well done," John muttered. "That was brilliant. How on earth did you work it out so quickly?"

"Mycroft would change his code each month, needing something memorable for the month of August, and what's the most memorable thing that ever happened in August? Dropping the first atomic bomb in 1945. Easy, really," Sherlock sat back on his heels. "_08atomic45_."

"But it could have been anything," Cate was already sliding the steel bar carefully across.

"Not for Mycroft," Sherlock shook his head. "It was either that or the Berlin wall going up, that would have been my second assumption."

"What would your third try have been?"

Sherlock frowned. "I wouldn't have needed a third try."

Avoiding the discussion of her brother-in-law's password-cracking skills, Cate looked at the files and her heart beat harder. She was actually going to do this.

"Okay," she said. "Mycroft's reports usually have a summary page in front of everything else, and I propose that we don't read beyond unless there seems a direct connection to the current situation, agreed?" she looked between the two men, seeking consensus.

"Agreed," John nodded, waiting for Sherlock.

"Oh, very _well_," he agreed, reluctantly.

"I am also going to suggest that, unless we find something particularly pertinent, then none of us needs to look at _all_ the files," she added, staring at the younger Holmes. "I would like to maintain as much of my husband's privacy as is reasonably possible under the circumstances."

"Oh, now that's simply _ridic_ …" Sherlock was frowning, about to make a fuss, when John interrupted.

"_Agreed_," he nodded again, giving his flatmate a serious look. "This is not about you getting hold of your brother's secrets and playing silly buggers," John sounded determined. "There's thirty files; let's take ten each."

"But we'll let you know if we find anything that might be relevant," Cate added. It would have been easier for her to do this alone, but she lacked Sherlock's ability to connect the dots, and wasn't up to dealing with an argumentative Holmes tonight. It was late and she was tired. Thank goodness for John.

"I agree, but under protest," Sherlock was faintly sulky. "We might miss something."

"You mean _Cate_ and _I _might miss something," John grinned. "Nice try."

Cate had removed all of the slim steel casings now, laying them into three equal piles. "Choose your poison," she said, softly.

Leaning forward, Sherlock took the nearest pile, and John did the same, leaving the rest for her. Pulling them close, she undid the first steel casing and turned to the Executive summary.

_Examination of troop-movements of the Korean Peninsula with extrapolation and analysis of counter-strike measures. Estimation of casualties, costs, pan-political reaction. Immediate and short-term consequences_.

Nope. She felt queasy realising what must be inside this folder. Closing it gladly, she picked up the next one.

_Operation 'Sanction'. H1N1 variant influenza pandemic (__1__Great Britain) (__2__Europe) (__3__Other): Population control; Emergency medical protocols; Triage; Disposal._

Definitely not. Disposal? _Good grief_.

_Lanza di Trabia, Baronessa, Nezetta. Political ideals; Group affiliations; Financed activities; Known relationships; Threat level 2._

This looked more like it. Turning the page, Cate read on. Apparently the Baronessa had an odd way of showing her appreciation of political partners. There was quite a long list of dates and names; several names had a thick black line through them. Unwilling to think too hard what that line might mean, Cate put the file in front of Sherlock.

"You might want to have a look at this one," she said, turning back to the files still unread.

Within twenty minutes, all of Mycroft's Ultra secrets had been disclosed: mostly political or strategic; sometimes research, often disaster. Some spoke of war, some of massively destabilising man-made or natural events. Nearly all of them were horrific, involving mass death and destruction.

_And this was Mycroft's work_, Cate realised. _He dealt with this stuff every day_.

In the end, they were left with four files, each one the profile of a very unpleasant individual. The Baronessa was the only woman. Of the three men, two of them were also considered Level 2 threats: a British Union leader with apparent ties to a variety of underground activists, and Munro: a Scottish peer. Only one, an Italian magnate called Trentini, was considered a Level 1.

"Whoever is mounting this campaign is incredibly well financed," Sherlock tapped a thumbnail against his teeth. "Neither the Baronessa nor the Trade Unionist have the kind of monetary backing they'd need to field something like this, so I suggest we focus on the remaining two."

"But what do we need to look at?" Cate was uncertain. "If Mycroft doesn't have the information, how on earth are we supposed to get anything useful in time to help?"

"Even my brother is sometimes constrained by legalities," Sherlock mused, half in thought.

"But we aren't?" John lifted his eyebrows. "We're going to break the law? _Again_?"

"Which specific law were you thinking of breaking first?" Cate sat back and waited. If it would help Mycroft, she'd break them two at a time.

"There's only one, really," he looked cheerful. "Although it's quite an important one."

"_And_?"

"We have to surveil their conversations."

"We're going to bug their offices?" John was quiet.

Sherlock nodded.

"To do which, we actually have to get into their offices with a bug?" Cate thought aloud.

"At least one," Sherlock nodded. "The more the better. I happen to have several."

Reluctant to ask where he had laid his hands on such things, Cate was pragmatic.

"Right," she nodded. "I'll check on planes to Rome and go find Signor Trentini."

As one, John and Sherlock scowled.

"Not a chance," John shook his head. "Not only are you _not_ going to Italy to chase after this man, I doubt your husband would want you involved with _any_ of these people in any shape or form," he added.

"Then he's just going to have to suck it up, isn't he?"

Cate was fed up. She'd had about enough of being told what she could and couldn't do, what she was allowed to know and what she wasn't. Mycroft may have meant well, but in the end, his kind of secrecy simply couldn't exist between them, especially if it led to such an unholy mess as this. Nor was she in the mood to bow her head to _anyone_. To hell with them all.

"My Italian is perfect; I have friends in Rome; I know the city fairly well and I can blend in," she announced, apropos of nothing and folding her arms. "Your turn."

John looked unhappy.

Sherlock made a face. "Mycroft won't like it," he said, finally. "Trentini is clearly very dangerous, even my brother has seen fit to label him with the highest level of warning."

"Until I can speak with Mycroft, these are the only leads we have to work on," Cate reasoned. "I won't sit on my hands waiting for news, I need to find out who's doing this to him."  
"Then you and John take the Scot," Sherlock breathed hard through his nose. "I will handle Italy, You two take Scotland."

About to comment acidly that she was not in the habit of asking anyone's permission for her activities, Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You'll be closer to the children that way and Mycroft, if he needs anything."

Her protest instantly deflated, she narrowed her eyes.

"_Sneaky_," she muttered, as the shadow of a smile tipped his mouth.

Sherlock knew he'd won. "_Alla bella Roma_," he said.

###

The drive into the Tower proper took ninety seconds, but it was all below ground and therefore dimly-lit. Mycroft, however, had seen these facilities before; had _used_ these facilities before, and was no stranger to the Tower's subterranean layout. He didn't need to see anything to know precisely where they were.

Moving from the car, they walked to lift embedded in a plain stone wall. Pressing the _Down_ button, the steel compartment sank deeper beneath London's clay, opening up into a different world of painted concrete and fluorescent lighting.

"Room Four?" Mycroft turned to Smith with a tranquil smile. He knew Room Four. It was one of the storage places of choice for long-stay recalcitrants, possessing a bathroom and sleeping facilities, as well as all the more usual interview _amenities_.

Jon bit back on his irritation. _He_ was in charge of this bloody interrogation, not Holmes. Taking a slow breath, he calmed himself: it was not _he_ who should be getting stressed by this process.

"Yes," he nodded briefly. "Is there anyone you would like us to contact, or you would like to see?" the younger man raised his eyebrows. "You are likely to be here for a while."

"How very considerate of you," Mycroft gave him another placid smile as if deaf to the implicit threat. "I'd like to see my wife and my brother, if possible?"

"I'll see what I can do, but a lot depends on how co-operative you feel like being."

Lifting his handcuffed wrists, Mycroft smiled yet again. "I am all yours," he was civility itself.

Smith felt another prickle of annoyance.

###

She had fallen asleep after Sherlock left with a chunk of Mycroft's cash in his pocket. He planned to catch the ten o'clock Rome plane if seats were available.

Nora had the twins changed and washed and was in the process of feeding them when Cate dragged herself into the kitchen from the shower.

"Sorry, Nora," she yawned. "Very late night last night," she smiled at the babies. "Good morning, my darlings," she said, stroking their hair and kissing their rounded cheeks.

"_Meema_," Julius waved his spoon in the air, wayward blobs of porridge undoing the recent face-wash.

"Hello, lovely boy," Cate nibbled at his ear as he giggled, tickled. Seeing Blythe was already into her carrot-and-apple puree, she was about to start feeding Jules if only to ensure the oats were eaten rather than daubed, when her phone rang.

It was Sherlock.

"A car's coming for you," he spoke quickly. "I'm coming too. They're allowing us to see Mycroft."

Her heart suddenly pounding, Cate wasn't sure if this was good or bad news.

"I'll be ready," she said, ending the call.

"Nora, I have to go out again, hopefully to speak with Mycroft and find out what's going on. Can you take them out for a walk as it's such a lovely morning? I don't know how long I'm likely to be. _Sorry_."

"_Course_, Miss Cate," Nora was thrilled to have the twins all to herself for the morning. "We'll go for a nice stroll around the park and by the pond."

Thanking all the gods for the blessing of a housekeeper-nanny, Cate made to leave.

Kissing Blythe on the top of her head to avoid an accidental benediction of carrot, Cate looked wistfully at her children, unwilling to leave them without their usual morning conversation, but at least they seemed content with Mrs Compton.

"We owe you a holiday in Paris," she smiled at the older woman. "Thank you, Nora, back soon, I hope."

"Take your time," the older woman smiled back. "We're going to feed the duckies."

"'_Ukkies,"_ Blythe grinned through her breakfast.

Sighing, Cate ran upstairs and dragged down an overnight case. Packing one of Mycroft's lighter suits, she added several fresh shirts, underwear, socks and some basic toiletries. They might not let her give them to him, but it was worth a try.

By the time she got back downstairs, the car was outside.

She climbed into the back next to Sherlock.

"What's happening?"

"Apparently Mycroft has asked to speak with us," Sherlock kept his voice low. "It seems the powers that be are trying to keep him happy, at least at the moment."

"Well, that's something, at least," Cate sighed. "Any idea where he is?"

"Not yet, but we're heading south at the moment …" he waited for a while, cataloguing the landmarks. "I think I know where we're going," his words were as quiet as before. "Don't be shocked." Unwilling to say any more, he smiled brightly and began wittering about the traffic.

Realising he was changing the subject, Cate fell silent, watching their direction. It was with some disbelief that she felt the car slow on Tower Approach. _No_. Surely not?

Taking the car this time through a more conventional gate, far from the crowds of tourists and pedestrians, they walked into the fortress via a small entrance near Salt Tower. There were some solid double doors which brought them to a lift embedded in a plain stone wall. As they went down, Cate felt her heart thud harder with every second.

With a soft jerk, they stopped, and were gestured forward along a concrete tunnel inset with wide-space doors. One was opened for them.

It was a small, plain room with chairs and a central table. The only thing of note was a long horizontal window into the next room, in which there were also chairs and a central table. And Mycroft. He looked tired, Cate saw, clamping her jaw tight so as not to say anything untoward.

Since he didn't react to her movement, Cate reasoned the glass was one-way.

Their escort held his hand out for the case. "We need to check everything," he said, quietly. She passed it over without a word.

Another man walked through the door dividing the two rooms and beckoned.

"Professor Holmes?" he asked. "My name is Smith. Would you like to come through, please."

Following him back into the room where Mycroft sat, Cate was hard-pressed not to wrap herself around her husband.

Seeing her enter, he stood, his eyes searching her face. She noted with lip-biting distress that he was still handcuffed.

"_Darling_," his voice at least, sounded normal.

"Oh _Mycroft_," suddenly she didn't care what anyone wanted, and flung her arms around his neck, hugging him close.

In the same split-second she heard his whisper. "_Slap me when it's time."_

Confused and unhappy, she released him as Smith unhooked her fingers carefully, guiding her to a seat on the opposite side of the table to her husband. _Slap him?_

"Not like that, Professor," the man said, not unkindly. "I need you to look at some pictures for me first, see if you can tell me who's in them, if you please."

"_Pictures_? Of course, what pictures?"

"These pictures," he said, laying several large black-and-white photographs along the table before her.

For a couple of seconds, she couldn't quite take it in. The photographs were of two people, nude; engaged in what was quite obviously a consensual and passionate sexual encounter.

It wasn't until she paid attention to the faces that she understood what it was the man wanted her to see.

_Mycroft_ and a _woman_. A very pretty blonde woman. Naked. _Together_.

Her stomach churned as she looked from one photograph to the next. _Oh God_. Feeling as if her neck carried the weight of the world, she lifted her eyes to meet his. Mycroft was calm and completely unruffled. Almost without expression.

"It's not me," he said.

_I will never lie to you, my darling_.

Returning to the picture, Cate looked for ways to show that it wasn't him, but it was, _it was_. And then she saw that it wasn't. The tiny white scar on his upper arm from Sherlock's eighth birthday.

_It wasn't on the man's arm._

It wasn't Mycroft in the photo. His face had been expertly superimposed onto another man's torso.

_Slap me when it's time._

Light dawned. Mycroft knew he was being watched by more than the people in these rooms. He wanted to put on a show. _Very well_. A show they would have.

Standing suddenly, her face stricken, Cate threw the photos at him, scattering the sheets in her precipitous and incandescent rage.

"You utter _bastard_," she hissed. "Not content to have me at home with the children, you had to be off with this … this … _tart_!"

"Cate, my darling …" Mycroft stood, hands outstretched, leaning forward as if to placate her.

Her hand swung across of its own volition, connecting with his face in a deafening _crack_ of skin against skin, the force of the blow tilting his face down and away.

"Don't _speak_ to me, you _miserable_ son of a _bitch_," she yelled. "I'm taking the children and Nora to Scotland, and you can rot here for as long as they'll keep you!"

Staring at him only just long enough for his eyes to meet hers, she saw the tiniest flicker of a wink, before his gaze went wide. _Scotland?_

Desperate though she was to stay, Cate realised that to do so would ruin the effect Mycroft wanted to create. She had to go.

"I want to leave," she snapped at Smith and marching to the door. "_Now!_"

Allowing her through into the other room where Sherlock was standing, curious and waiting, she ran over and hurled herself at his chest, fingers scrabbling at his suit lapels, tears in her voice.

"_He told me to slap him_," she whispered, ending with a plaintive whimper buried in his shoulder.

"He's been with another woman," she added, loud enough for the audience to hear. "_Again_."

Sliding an arm tight around her back, Sherlock held her protectively against his body, maintaining a perfectly straight face, although his breathing changed.

"I told you not to marry him, Cate," he growled. "I told you he was no good for you, but you wouldn't listen, and now, _see_."

"I thought he'd stop, after the children," she leaned down onto the table, weeping softly.

"I want to speak with my brother, please," Sherlock looked from Cate's distraught form through the two-way glass to Mycroft in the adjacent room, his features cold and severe.

"Be my guest," Smith's eyes were wide as he waved at the connecting door.

Slamming through, Sherlock confronted his brother, whose face now bore the reddening imprint of Cate's hand.

"You absolute _prick_, Mycroft," he shouted, shaking with anger, stabbing a finger at the glass window. "Cate's in there breaking her heart over you, you _bloody_ swine. How can you do this to a woman who's stuck with you despite everything? Had your children? You're a complete _arse_, and I'll have nothing more to do with you!"

"Sherlock,' Mycroft was phlegmatic, his voice mild. "You are overacting."

"Overacting? _Overacting?_ Knocking you on your bloody complacent arse wouldn't be overacting …" Sherlock stopped, looking at the floor, his shoulders suddenly drooping.

"I've decided to take that trip to Rome," he said. "Sort this one out by yourself," he added, "I'm tired of solving your problems for you," he shook his head disgustedly and returned to the second room without a backwards glance.

Wrapping an arm around the clearly distraught Cate, Sherlock nodded at Smith.

"Take us home, please. We're done here."

In Room Four, Mycroft touched his face gingerly where Cate had struck him. It didn't feel like she had been acting, unlike his brother's rather more amateur dramatics. If Sherlock was heading for Rome and Cate and presumably John, for Scotland, then they had gone through his files as he had anticipated, reaching the same conclusions as himself. Clearly they had decided upon a plan to identify the real genesis of the accusations against him in order to prove his innocence. The easiest way would be to intercept phone and digital communications, or, failing that, to bug the suspects' home and offices.

Now he could only wait to see how the conspirators reacted now that he was alone and helpless. Would they take the bait?

Would they come after him?


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_To the Via Veneto – Heading North – The Lessons of Mr Smith – The Flirting of Sherlock – One Down, Two To Go – The Tide Begins to Turn – You Are Quite Changed – Caught._

#

#

Establishing Trentini's private address in Rome was not difficult as it was a matter of public record; his main listed residence being an impressive mansion on the Via Veneto, also known as _Strada di Millionair_ – Millionaire's Road.

After the rather droll performance at the Tower that morning, unmistakably bait for one of his brother's convoluted traps, Sherlock procured a seat on an _Alitalia_ flight that landed him at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport just after four o'clock in the afternoon. He'd managed to nap briefly on the flight, helpful, as he didn't anticipate sleeping again until his return to London.

Tucked carefully within bubble-wrap inside a very specifically purposed case hanging from his shoulder, were three small plastic devices, each containing a tiny chip, each remotely activated, and each destined for a different room in Trentini's _palazzo_. Sherlock had already worked out how to get in and it was a shame John wasn't here, they'd done this before and it would have been amusing to perfect their approach. Doing this alone would be probably be quicker, however.

Telling the cab-driver to head into Rome's centre, he relaxed back into the seat and watched the city's most famous landmarks fly past in the dazzling Italian sunshine.

###

Cate went north alone.

After consideration, she felt it wiser to leave the children with Nora rather than take them with her to Scotland. She was going to need to be able to move quickly, and, while the idea of leaving them without either her or Mycroft was not ideal, she hoped it would be a few days at most. Here at home, at least she knew they'd be safe. It was just the idea of leaving them, even with Mrs Compton, which made her uncomfortable. But it would have been both foolish and impractical to drag them along.

John seconded her decision.

"Hopefully, we'll be able to get in and out of the place pretty easily," he nodded. "The Earl's home is open to the public," he said. "It's a castle; how hard is it going to be to get into his private rooms?"

They were to leave that afternoon, catching a fast little flight to Inverness and getting a hire-car from the airport. Cate had a small holdall waiting by the door for John to arrive in the cab _enroute_ to Heathrow.

Her phone rang.

"Mrs Hudson's had a fire in her kitchen and she's in a bit of a state," John said apologetically. "She's physically alright, but there's firemen traipsing all over the place, and she has to get a plumber and an electrical inspection and there's all sorts of drama going on. I don't think she should be left to handle this all by herself, but perhaps by tomorrow things will have calmed down a bit."

"You need to be there with her," Cate decided. "You stay, I'll go to Scotland. As you said," she added confidently, "the place is open to the public; it's not going to be difficult. I'll probably be back tomorrow. I'd rather not be away from the twins for too long, in any case."

He hadn't been happy with the idea and tried to argue her out of leaving without him when she arrived at Baker Street to collect the transmitters, but she was in no mood for further deliberation. Every minute's delay meant an extension of Mycroft's imprisonment.

Taking the small plastic bag containing the devices, along with verbal instructions on how and where to place them for maximum effectiveness, she headed back to the townhouse, Cate knew she'd have to leave the twins quickly, or there would be tears. Probably hers.

"Mummy has to go away and help Daddy,' she said, speaking to the both of them as they sat in their highchairs. "But if you're very good, Nanny Nora will take you to see the ducks."

Of course, neither of the twins could possibly understand what she'd said, although Blythe looked thoughtful.

"_Mumma_," she nodded. "Adda?"

"Yes, Daddy," Cate tucked her daughter's hair behind a small ear. "Daddy will be back soon."

"_Adda_," Blythe narrowed her blue eyes, so much like Mycroft's it was extraordinary to see them in such a carefree little face. With certain expressions, the child looked uncannily like her father, a fact Mycroft declined to accept.

"I do not look like that," he'd asserted, watching his daughter raise her dainty eyebrows and assess him from beneath semi-lowered lids.

"Darling husband," Cate laughed softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. "You sometimes look _exactly_ like that."

"Adda?"

"Daddy," Cate suggested.

"_Adda_," Blythe was having none of it.

Turning to Julius who sat quietly, waiting to see what was going to happen next, she smiled again at how twins could be so different in temperament. Blythe was outspoken, adventurous and slightly bossy, whereas Jules was introspective, calm and biddable, although his stare was no insubstantial thing.

"_Meema_," he nodded, holding out his hand, his _left_ hand, Cate noted for the first time. Was her son to be a Southpaw too? "_Meema_?"

"Mummy," Cate pressed his fingers to her mouth, blowing a raspberry against the soft flesh. He giggled, pulling the hand away then bringing it back.

"_Mummy_," he said, "_more_," curling his fingers at her.

Goosebumps rose on her arms. His words had been perfectly clear, as had his request. Not yet a year old and her children were already precocious. She remembered, after she'd announced her pregnancy, Sherlock congratulating her and Mycroft on producing another Holmes genius. And then she'd had twins. _Both of them?_

"_Daddy_," she tried, but Jules giggled again, hiding his face in his hands.

Shaking her head and smiling, she gave them both a kiss before turning to Nora.

"I hope to be back either tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest," she said. "You have my number, so ring me at _any_ time if there's anything you need, or if you have a problem. If there's an emergency, or you need someone immediately, then ring John Watson on this number," she handed the older woman a piece of card with John's mobile details. "I don't want to leave you or the twins like this, but with Mycroft out of commission, I don't seem to have a lot of choice, I'm sorry, Nora," she added.

"Not to worry yourself now, Miss Cate," Mrs Compton was all efficiency. "I've looked after Holmes babies before," she smiled. "So don't fret about anything, just take care of yourself and come back safe."

"I promise," Cate took a deep breath and turned, walking away before she changed her mind.

And now she was heading north.

###

As he expected, they had failed to locate the woman, the pretty Ms Sharon Bithall, although several of her alleged neighbours confirmed seeing a young female answering a similar description. However, there was no recent sign of the woman herself. Her flat, though furnished, with crisp supplies in the refrigerator and fresh-cut flowers in a vase, held nothing of useful physical evidence. No hairs on the pillow; no soiled clothing in a hamper, no used toothbrush. There were any number of items which spoke of _occupancy_, but almost nothing that identified the _occupier_.

No matter, Mycroft was patient. The less Smith and his little band were actively able to prove, the simpler it would be to destroy MI5's erroneous conclusions. The entire scenario with the woman also seemed a little rushed, as if it were a last-minute idea. There were too many missing details.

"Looks like your girlfriend has done a midnight flit," Smith was seated on the other side of the table in Room Four. They had been in this room for fourteen consecutive hours.

Other than the emotional blood-letting earlier in the day during Cate and Sherlock's visit, an event which Mycroft still felt tingling across the right side of his face, things had been quiet.

"I do not know Ms Bithall," Mycroft crossed his legs and linked his fingers comfortably, although he was becoming increasingly in need of a stretch and a walk. "A fact you will eventually realise, at which point it may also begin to dawn upon you that this situation has been entirely fabricated to further a very specific agenda."

"Your agenda?" Smith crossed his own legs.

Mycroft tilted his head fractionally, but said nothing.

"You still submit the photographs are fake?" Smith examined his nails. Though he had no intention of being duped a second time by this man, Holmes was being entirely consistent in his denials.

"Yes."

"Just like the letters specifying British security details with your signature all over them, just as the paper-trail of payments to a huge variety of criminal elements across Europe? Just like the other affairs your _wife_ seems to think you've been having? That your own _brother_ accuses you of having?"

"Quite," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "All illusory."

Shaking his head, Smith almost smiled. There was so much evidence of guilt that a sane person would immediately admit their complicity and give up any pretence of innocence, but not, it seemed, Mycroft Holmes.

"When we locate Ms Bithall …" Smith began.

"You will not find her," Mycroft sighed, slightly wearied by the repetition. "At least," he added. "Not under that name."

"Then you admit to her existence?" the younger man wondered if they were actually getting somewhere.

"I merely voice an assumption that this woman has been alive at some point, although I cannot speak for her location or continued vitality at this precise moment."

"Are you saying the woman is dead?" Smith's voice sharpened. _Was Holmes a murderer on top of everything else?_

"I admit nothing of the sort," Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I am _stating_ you will not find a woman of _that_ description bearing _that_ particular name."

"Because she doesn't exist?"

"She does not exist under _that_ name," Mycroft looked fractionally hopeful.

"Then what name does she use?" Jon was tired. Please God, let him get _something_ out of this conversation.

Mycroft looked satisfied. "_At last_," he breathed. "A sensible question."

"The answer being?" Smith frowned, not sure where this was going.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Mycroft leaned forward, his voice low. "But perhaps now we might begin to find out?"

###

Shuffling through a series of business-cards in his wallet, many of which would have even his brother's eyebrows raised, Sherlock blinked slowly as he found the one he needed.

The cab pulled into the side of the road, several streets away from where Sherlock intended to go. Paying the driver, he stepped into the nearest shop that sold sunglasses, acquiring a pair of fake Dolce and Gabbana and a raw silk cravat which he knotted expertly around his throat, adding a certain _sprezzatura_ to his deceptively plain but well-cut suit. Peeling his shirt open to reveal a slice of ivory skin, he also purchased a rose-tinted lip salve which took mere seconds to apply, yet gave his features a distinctly metrosexual light. The small case, still hanging from his shoulder lent his appearance yet another aspect, and it would be this, more than anything that would secure his admittance to Trentini's home, but every little helped.

Sherlock strolled up to the front entrance of the Italian industrialist's mansion, carefully eying the suited muscle who stood in the shade, away from the harsh Roman sunlight.

"_B__uon pomeriggio_," he drawled elegantly, flicking imagined dust from his cuff. "I am here to photograph Signor Trentini for GQ, as arranged," he said, flourishing a card which did, indeed, identify the bearer as one Giancarlo Fabonicci, _Giornalista__Fotografica_ for the celebrated men's fashion magazine.

"_Wait_," the sizeable guard scowled, turning to the inconspicuous intercom beside the door. He spoke a few rapid words in Italian.

"Signor Trentini's Secretary says there is no such appointment today," the large man scowled harder.

"My editor sent me here on this dreadfully hot afternoon," Sherlock fanned his cheek and looked ill-treated. "In the sun and the heat, to take photographs of _Il Trentini_ at home," He narrowed his eyes. "If you want to tell your boss why his face is not on GQ's cover next month, be my guest."

The man hesitated, analytical thinking clearly not his strong suit.

"Wait," he frowned again, turning back to the intercom. There were several animated exchanges.

"You can go in, but wait in the foyer," he said, eventually, pressing a button that had the large front door open on well-oiled hinges.

Stepping inside, the mansion was deliciously cool and shaded after the fierce burn of the Mediterranean sunlight. A young and extremely handsome major-domo appeared, his immaculate _Esemplare_ ensemble speaking volumes about Trentini's lifestyle, and the salaries he paid his staff. Of course, this information had been in Mycroft's file about the man. Right next to the personal details of the people closest to him.

Sherlock smiled, pushing the sunglasses up into his hair and allowing his gaze to wander slowly down the man's silhouette, openly admiring the cut of his suit and the body inside it.

"_Hi_," he smiled a little more warmly. "I am here to take photographs of Signor Trentini for next month's GQ, but it seems I am not on your list," he blinked very slowly, gazing at the young Italian with half-hooded eyes.

"Signor Fabonicci?" the young man's lips had parted at the first sound of Sherlock's sumptuous voice, fingertips coming to rest at his throat as his heart thudded at the tall, dark, Adonis of a photographer. "This is correct," the secretary stammered at Sherlock's bright blue stare, a blush touching his face. "I have no record of any arrangement with your magazine, and the _Patron_ is not yet at home. I am so very sorry," he added, his palms open in honest apology.

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "This is too bad," he scowled. "I am flying out tonight to London. There is a party," he paused, fingers waving dismissively in the air as if he revelled in a different capital every night. "I am not in Roma again until the eighteenth, and that will miss next month's deadline."

The secretary paused in thought. If his employer was intended for the magazine's cover, and the Holy Father only knew how many of those the man had been on in the last ten years, then he would not be pleased to miss the opportunity. GQ was a very well-considered publication, especially by Signor Trentini. The major-domo made up his mind.

"_Stay_," he said, licking his lips uncertainly. "I will try and get my boss here in the next hour, if that will suffice?"

Pretending thought, Sherlock took a deep breath, shaking back his hair. "If there is no other way," he murmured, grudgingly. "But I will need coffee," he demanded, his eyes snapping back to the svelte features of Trentini's assistant. "Get me a really good coffee," he murmured, strolling indolently across to the delicately featured Roman, "and I may forgive your neglect of my visit," he added, lifting a hand as if to brush the Italian's cheek.

"My name is Paul," the younger man's eyes had gone wide, his breath faltering as Sherlock's fingertips paused, level with his face.

"A pretty name," Sherlock smiled, blinking slowly again and lowering his hand. "Suits you."

"I'll take you to the lounge and you may wait in comfort, Signor Fabonicci," the secretary almost stuttered, indicating the way.

"Call me Giancarlo," Sherlock stared down at the younger man who seemed to be having problems with his breathing. "Would you object to my taking a few photos of the house for background?"

"Giancarlo?" Paul swallowed. "As long as Signor Trentini gives his permission before you publish, then go ahead," he paused, watching the tall photographer.

"Coffee?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Right away, _Giancarlo_," Trentini's assistant practically skipped through the door in his haste.

Swiftly unpacking an old Hasselblad and various lenses from the case over his shoulder, Sherlock lifted up the heavy base of the casing, bringing three small plastic devices into the light. Each one was almost transparent, containing a virtually invisible microphone, a small tail of covered wire and a miniscule chip which could be remotely activated for intermittent transmission activity. These latest micro-transmitters were WI-FI and could transmit via any relatively nearby hotspot, and since this place was undoubtedly wired for every conceivable manner of communication, all he needed to do now was locate the most productive site for their deployment.

One in this main lounge might be a good place to begin, a small central occasional table the most suitable spot as he bent quickly, attaching the bug tight up against the table's underside inner lip. Even if the table were overturned, the thing was almost invisible unless you knew exactly what you were looking for.

He had another two devices to set. One _had_ to be in Trentini's office, but he had no idea where that might be in a mansion like this. It could be on the first floor, could be upstairs near the bedroom; there might even be two of them in a dwelling of this scale. It was pointless guessing: he needed a guide. Ideally, the third location would be the industrialist's bedroom.

By the time young Paul returned, bearing a tray with a tiny cup and a minute pot of freshly-made _espresso_, Sherlock was already scanning through the camera's viewfinder, seeking the best-framed shots possible. He swung around, his eyes still on the camera's viewplate, catching the flustered young man like an emergent butterfly, pinned by the lens' attention.

Lowering the instrument, Sherlock smiled again.

"The camera likes you," he said, softly, playfully.

"Then you are a _brilliant_ photographer," the secretary breathed, his fingers trembling a little as he poured the black nectar. Handing the small white cup to Sherlock, Trentini's assistant held his breath.

Sniffing the coffee, Sherlock lifted his eyebrows as if reserving judgement, as he sipped. He sipped again, allowing a one-sided smile to curl his mouth.

"Is it good?" Paul's hand was again at his throat.

"_Perfecto_," Sherlock's deep voice rumbled shamelessly, causing the young man's pulse to dance.

"I need you to do something else for me, Paul," Sherlock finished the coffee, placing the cup back onto the small tray.

His expression glazed with incipient hero-worship and embryonic lust, the Italian just nodded. Anything. _Anything_, for this tall, beautiful stranger.

"I want you to show me two more rooms," Sherlock murmured, stepping close again, ramping his voluptuous ice-blue stare up to full-wattage.

Unable to do more than squeak and nod, Paul waited, eyes wide.

"I need you," Sherlock stepped even closer, a finger running down the man's tie. "To show me where the great man works every day," he said, his words low and seductive. "And then," he added, raising his eyebrows and dropping his voice the better part of an octave. "I want you to take me to the biggest bedroom in the house."

"You want me to take you the master bedroom?" Paul swallowed convulsively.

"Oh yes," Sherlock sounded like velvet as he brushed invisible dust from the shoulder of the _Esemplare_ jacket. "I am very interested in bedrooms."

###

Heading for Heathrow, Cate had no clear idea exactly how she was going to achieve her goal. All she understood was that she had to deploy the three micro-transmitters in the three rooms most likely to be used by the Earl. Sherlock had suggested a lounge or kitchen, his study or office, and his bedroom as the most likely places.

On the flight, she ran through a variety of alternatives, but kept returning to the old tourist-getting-lost-in-a-grand-house ploy. The Earl's home, Castle Tain had a visitor's website. And she already knew that tours were conducted daily, with evening tours during High Summer. She had missed the day-time walkabout, but should be there in plenty of time for the second excursion.

Her plane landed at Inverness a few minutes early than scheduled, the entire trip taking just under ninety-minutes. Heading out to the hire-car section, she became the temporary owner of a silver-grey _Evoque_, one of Range Rover's more compact models but still with sufficient grunt to get her to Tain Castle in plenty of time for the evening's little jaunt.

Traffic was minimal and in less than an hour, she had pulled up into the Visitor's car park outside the castle. So swift had her travels been in fact, she realised she had almost two hours to kill before she could begin the tour. Fortunately, the place was well–managed and there was a lovely little café overlooking nearby Dornoch Firth. As she hadn't eaten much of anything now for more than twenty-four hours, a pot of hot tea and some fresh salmon-sandwiches went down particularly well.

Ringing Nora, she wanted to check the twins were behaving themselves and had eaten their dinner. Actually, she wanted to hear their voices, painfully aware she could not speak with her husband as easily.

"Mumma?" Blythe was cautious at first, as Mrs Compton held the phone to her ear. "_Mumma!_"

"Hello, darling girl," Cate felt an ache at missing the nightly cuddles. "Have you eaten all your dinner?"

"_Ukkies_, Mumma," Blythe's grin was audible all the way up to Scotland. "Nawwa make ukkies!"

"That sounds wonderful, sweetheart," Cate smiled, hoping that her daughter was describing their outing, and not that Nora had actually cooked duck for dinner.

"Mummy?" Julius' comparatively quiet voice was curious as he spoke into Nora's phone for the first time.

"I'm here, my sweet boy," Cate felt a lump in her throat: this was far harder than she'd anticipated.

"Dukkies, Mummy," he paused, clearly thinking hard. "Jule go dukkies."

Biting her lip so as not to embarrass herself in public, Cate took a deep breath and smiled hard.

"Jules is a very clever boy," she said. "Would you like to see the ducks again?"

"Dukkies, Mummy, _please_?"

Clearly the birds had made a great impression on them both. She'd have to speak to Mycroft about getting some ducks for Deepdene.

"Nora will take you to see them tomorrow, darling," she checked with the housekeeper, whose only other questions was what an _Antant_ might be when it was at home. Cate wasn't able to help and, since everything was obviously well, she said goodnight to all of them.

A hint of dusk was creeping across the sky when she found the nearest ladies toilet. Changing swiftly out of her light summer dress, Cate slid into a pair of old black jeans, too big at the waist and hugging the hips. She kept meaning to buy new ones to accommodate her slightly altered dimensions, but these ones were _so_ comfortable she didn't have the heart to throw them out. Some black Nikes, a dark t-shirt tucked into a cinched-in leather belt and a dark-coloured cotton jacket completed what she considered her burglar's outfit. As long as the house wasn't internally floodlit, she would be able to blend easily into the shadows. At the last minute, she remembered to turn her phone off. The last thing she wanted was a revealing ringtone to give the game away.

She waited until a queue formed by the small ticket office and bought her entry into the home of Mycroft's enemy. Cate's heart beat a little harder, although it wasn't fear she felt but excitement. She hadn't done anything like this since she was at Cambridge and her study-group broke into his private office to abduct the Master's bust of Pythagoras, ransoming it for a donation to charity. That a small portion of the ransom was diverted into their beer-fund was a minor matter. It was the sharp snap of adrenalin that brought the memory to mind tonight, although back then it had been all in fun: the worst thing that might happen would have been a dressing-down by one of the porters or, at worst, being put before the dean. The current adventure was not as innocent, yet the excitement was strangely similar.

The fact that this was twenty years prior made no difference: she still recalled the spiky tingle of anticipation and almost smiled. This was just like old times.

Following the rather impressive-sized group into the first hall of the castle, she immediately began searching for anything that said _Private_. Wherever they didn't want her to go was precisely where she'd head.

Trooping through one room after the next, she was starting to feel a little frustrated when she saw the first roped-off passageway to her right. Feigning sudden interest in a rather mediocre oil-painting of some myopic eighteenth-century chatelaine, she waited until the entire group had moved towards the far door before she stepped nimbly over the red-velvet rope and into the shadows beyond.

Looking around, it was immediately clear she was in the more private part of the house: here and there were signs of a greater domesticity; rugs that were no less luxurious, but less artfully arranged; the painting of a dog that was no masterpiece but more the memory of an old friend. There was an expensive set of golf-clubs leaning against a wall and the faint smell of lavender furniture polish. For the briefest of moments, Cate felt a reluctance to continue. This was someone's home.

As swiftly as the notion arrived, it vanished, as Mycroft's face imposed itself on her thoughts. She moved quietly through the lower floor of the castle. John had said to place each of the three micro-transmitters in a likely place: a lounge, an office and the main bedroom. _Very well_. Now all she had to do was to find them before anyone found her.

Most of the rooms she walked through were dark, which was incredibly helpful as it meant she could race through them without much fear of attracting attention. The Earl's bedroom was probably upstairs, but where was the lounge? Away from the tourists, that would be a given, but where exactly?

Changing tactics, Cate began looking for lights and noise: evidence of habitation and use. Working towards the larger corridors and passages, Cate found herself outside the kitchen judging by the aroma of cooking and the quiet mutter of voices. Peering cautiously around the heavy, iron-bound door which opened outwards into the passage where she stood, she saw two women examining a box of pears. Stepping back from the doorway, She looked around. Where would the main lounge be from here?

The answer arrived sooner than expected as a man dressed in a formal butlering black headed down the passage where Cate lurked. It would be impossible for him to miss her, standing out in the open like this, and she looked frantically for a bolt-hole. There was nothing, no corner she could step around, no cupboard. Cate did the only thing she could and slid behind the open kitchen door. If the man tried to push the door open fully, she'd be discovered. Fortunately, the door-arches in these old castles were very wide and even with her standing behind the thing, there was still plenty of doorway left. She held her breath as the butler walked closer.

Passing straight by the door, not even noticing the more than usually deep shadow behind, the butler asked where they'd put the newly decanted port as he wanted to take it to His Lordship's drawing room for the evening.

Lifting the crystal bottle onto a salver, the man carried it ceremoniously back the way he came, and Cate realised her opportunity. Slipping from behind the door, she followed him all the way back down the passage, turning right into a well-lit corridor.

This was problematic. If anyone came along behind her, she'd be spotted instantly. If the butler turned around, he'd see her. Should she continue or stay hidden?

Without another thought, she stepped into the light and padded silently along the thick carpet, following the man with the silver salver. Passing by several open rooms, Cate observed that they were increasing in grandeur, with high ceilings, ornate décor and lush drapery. Catching herself just in the nick of time to avoid walking into the back of the butler who had paused to open a large door, she watched as he stepped into yet another grandly decorated room, although this one was set out for more relaxed living. There was a large unlit fire around which were arranged various elegant and comfortable sofas and chairs. It looked like a place where people sat and talked.

Waiting for the butler to leave the decanter and go, Cate was frustrated by the man's fussing as he moved various bottles and dishes around on the sideboard. Finally, he was happy, leaving swiftly thorough another door.

Instantly, Cate had crossed to one of the central small tables, her hand slipping up and underneath, pressing the sticky side of the transmitter hard and deep into a crevice of joinery.

_One down, two to go._

###

Thankfully, they'd uncuffed his wrists and permitted him to walk about the room which was considerate of them. Mycroft made a note that MI5 interrogation protocols needed to be amended in order that this not happen in the future: any prisoner considered sufficiently perfidious to be brought to the Tower for questioning should be given neither consideration nor relief.

Smith was somewhere between his fifth and sixth coffees, trying to make them do in place of sleep, as he watched his prisoner – _his_ prisoner, _ha_ – walk slowly around the room. They had been in this dismal bunker for nearly twenty-hours and his only clear suspicion was that Mycroft Holmes might not be entirely human. He didn't fidget or yawn, he didn't slump with tiredness, _Christ_, the man didn't even sweat. Neither of them had slept for almost thirty-six hours, and Holmes looked as fresh as the proverbial, while Jon was seriously thinking about crashing on the cot next door.

A second, much more detailed forensic report had come in following the analysis of Sharon Bithall's house in Chelsea. Everything about the place said that the woman lived there and that she had a tall, dark-haired lover; there were even clothes hanging in the wardrobe that appeared to be Mycroft's. Right size, right tailor. But they had found nothing that categorically confirmed either _he_ or the _woman_ had actually stayed at the premises. The only fingerprints in the entire house that were clear enough to be useful were a complete set of Mycroft's right hand found on the outside of the bedroom door. Apart from those prints, so perfect and so perfectly located as to be immediately suspicious, everything else that pointed to the house being a place of assignation was circumstantial. Very _cleverly_ circumstantial, but still. And if there were doubts as to the authenticity of the _affaire_, then it opened the door for doubts elsewhere.

"Are you beginning to _think_ yet, Mr Smith?" Mycroft stood, watching the weariness on the younger man's features grow as frustration added to his burden. "Are your synapses firing sufficiently for your brain to arrive at the inevitable conclusion?"

Leaning forward on the table, head resting between his hands, Jon rubbed his eyes hard.

"Just because …" he started.

"Just because, _nothing_," Mycroft retook his seat, crossing his legs. "Listen to yourself, man," he continued. "If it were not me under investigation, you'd have moved onto fresh fields hours ago."

"You still insist upon a conspiracy?" Smith looked at the older man from in-between his fingers.

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows.

"There is corroborating evidence of you being involved with this woman: we have your fingerprints on the bedroom door."

"Which might have been raised from any one of a hundred places and relocated there," Mycroft shook his head. "You know as well as I, how this is done."

"Your clothes in the wardrobe."

"My tailor is not a State secret."

"The photographs."

"Faked, naturally."

"The letters?"

"Likewise falsified."

"Your wife's behaviour?"

"For an academic, my wife is a convincing actor."

"Your brother's condemnation?"

"Not such a convincing actor."

"Why would they act?" Smith frowned. "How would they even know to act?"

Mycroft sighed. "If this entire scenario is a sham," he said in a resigned tone. "Which it is, who else is watching us go through this little dance?" he asked, leaning forward, his words almost inaudible. "Whoever is responsible for this attempted coup against me would clearly require some indication, some evidence that their plan was working," he added. "I decided to give it to them."

"But how did your wife know to react the way she did?" Jon was even more confused.

"I told her it wasn't me," Mycroft smiled.

_That's right, he had_. Jon remembered those actual words. "And she believed you? Without question or explanation?" his tone was sceptical.

Rubbing his nose in an uncertain way, Mycroft smiled ruefully. "My wife believed me," his mouth twitched, "though I dare say I will be expected to explain quite a lot of things when all this is over."

"And your brother? How did he know what you wanted him to do?"

"My wife told him," he smiled a little. "Cate is an intelligent, clever woman, and my brother, whatever his faults may be, is a _very_ fast study."

Thinking back to that morning, Smith remembered the woman had flung herself into the younger Holmes' arms. She could have whispered something to him then, but it would have to have been the most minimal of instructions.

Sitting back in his uncomfortable chair, Smith folded his arms and thought. Despite his every intention to prove Mycroft Holmes a traitorous villain, the necessary details were refusing to co-operate. The Bithall woman couldn't be located, nor was there any definite forensic proof she even existed. The letters, while giving every evidence of being genuine, showed no sign of age or actual handing: it was as if they'd been kept in a sterile environment until the time of their discovery, a state which the MI5 lab-rats suggested was virtually impossible to occur accidentally. Even the apparently tortuous financial web was beginning to look shaky under the closest expert scrutiny.

There were too few certainties and too many question-marks.

"Assuming you are correct," Jon said, leaning forward and staring directly into Mycroft's eyes, "and that's still open for debate,' he added. "Then we would need to find out who is really behind all this, who has access to the information in those letters, who has the ability to set this whole thing up and wants to see you in gaol for the rest of your life."

Closing his eyes for the briefest of respites, Mycroft drew a slow, deep breath. "_Finally_," he muttered.

"So what's the next step?" Smith frowned again. "Who do we go after?"

Shaking his head, Mycroft looked pacific.

"We go after no-one," he said.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Jon was curious. The situation was at stalemate.

"Since we have no clear indication of the scenario's architect, we cannot mount an effective hunt," Mycroft smiled. "_Therefore_," he added, "we get them to come to _us_," his smile grew.

It was not a kindly smile.

###

Trentini's office was a vision of schematised excess, with massive slabs of black marble and ebony fighting each other for stylistic dominance against a background of aberrant glass carvings and far too much surreal art. His desk, an antique Venetian horror , though tasteless, had to be worth a fortune.

"Mag_nificent_!" Sherlock stalked around the room, taking shots from odd angles, muttering extravagantly.

Paul was entranced. This was creative genius at work! He had not the smallest doubt that the article which would undoubtedly accompany his master's impressive cover photograph, would be appropriately effusive and – who knew – perhaps there might even be a trifling mention of those who assisted the great man?

"_The light_!" Sherlock was in raptures. "_The dialogue between space and form!_" he waxed lyrical. "I must have it _all_," he strode to the desk, hurling himself into the great black leather chair, the fingers of one hand momentarily sliding beneath the front rim.

About to demand the mesmerized major-domo escort him directly to Trentini's bedroom, Paul's mobile phone rang. He answered swiftly, an elated smile crossing his face as he lifted his eyes to Sherlock's.

"He is _here_!" he grinned. "When my employer heard of your visit, he must have been so very interested in meeting you that he has cancelled his meetings to speak to you himself!" the younger man was clearly thrilled. "Come, you must come and meet him now."

Managing to look pleased, Sherlock walked towards the office door and out into the lengthy passage beyond. He could only hope his cover-story would be sufficient and that Trentini wouldn't ask too many questions.

A well-built, immaculately-suited man approached from the opposite direction, a broad smile on his features.

"Signor Fabonicci?" he extended a large hand, almost crushing Sherlock's fingers in his grasp. "When Paul here told me who was waiting at my home, I simply could not wait to meet you again after our last encounter," he said, still smiling, although the light in his dark eyes had turned suddenly very cold.

"Indeed," Sherlock dropped the smile. "And when was that?" he asked, his pretence vanishing like mist in the Roman sun.

"When you photographed my daughter's wedding for _Donna Moderna_ last year," the Italian grinned nastily. "You are quite changed, _Signor_."

"Vitamins," Sherlock observed the large guard who had accompanied his boss from the front-door and was currently awaiting instructions.

"Who are you and why are you in my house?" Trentini snarled, shoving the tall stranger back against the wall.

Sherlock thought fast.

###

Now that she'd managed to bug what seemed to be the main lounge, Cate wanted to find the Earl's study or estate office. It would probably be on the ground-floor, given that the castle and lands were a managed concern and people would be in-and-out on a regular basis, therefore it would most likely be easy to get at by visitors.

Stepping back out of the lounge, Cate looked both ways up and down the long passage, before heading swiftly around to her right – an intuitive decision – it felt like the correct way. Leading her into yet another broad hallway of wood-covered stone, with a small external door at the end, she searched for any sign that indicated a study or place of business. Observing several chairs lined up along the wall opposite a large wooden door, Cate felt a surge of optimism – this was easier than she had anticipated.

The door was slightly ajar and, checking she was still unobserved, Cate peered slowly around the leading edge.

The room was indeed an office, with an enormous oak table in the middle of the room, home to a couple of new-looking laptops and liberally bestrewn with piles of paper, account-books and rolls of tour-tickets. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves wrapped around one half of the room, each one laden with an eclectic collection of volumes. The other half of the room was dominated by a huge open fireplace, laid but unlit, and high-backed leather chairs scattered around several occasional tables. What she could see of the walls were adorned with portrait-sized colour photographs of the estate and castle grounds. Though not a private study, this would surely be a place of many conversations: it would suffice for the second of Sherlock's little gadgets.

Stepping into the room and about to install a micro-transmitter under the nearest corner of the great wooden table, Cate was startled into immobility when the click of a cigarette-lighter jerked her attention to the man who had just risen from one of the all- concealing chairs and was now staring at her with a fixed and profound misgiving.

Straightening her spine and staring back, Cate's mind went blank. _Oh shit_. _Caught_.

"_Who the bloody hell are you?_" he demanded in a cultivated Scottish accent, "and what are you doing in my office?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_A Conversation of Spies – The Business of Risk – The Gentle Art of Lying._

#

#

"You mean to use yourself as bait?" Smith frowned slightly. "There's no way anyone could possibly get to you in here," he added. "We're far too secure – you've used this facility yourself."

"I have," Mycroft nodded amiably. "And it is."

"Then how do you imagine anyone might think you sufficiently vulnerable, even assuming you were allowed to be alone and without surveillance?" Jon frowned even more, his eyes widening as he sat back, understanding beginning to dawn.

"You aren't anticipating them coming down here at all, are you?" he asked. "You plan on being somewhere else entirely."

Mycroft offered the younger man a faint smile. There might be hope for Mr Smith yet.

"I do," his tone was mild but adamant. "After a certain, yet to be decided, number of hours of interrogation and investigation, you will let it be known that I am to be permitted to walk around the Tower holdings tomorrow evening," Mycroft paused. "After the tourists have departed and under appropriately armed escort, of course," he added. "And then we shall see what eventuates."

The implications made Jon's breath catch in his lungs. "You think there's a mole in MI5," he said. "You think whoever's setting you up out there is getting help from inside our organisation."

"I am convinced of it," Mycroft's eyes narrowed and his voice lost any pretence of mildness. "And there may never be a better opportunity to flush them out," he added. "Let us hope they reveal themselves before the canker goes too deep."

"How can you be sure they'll take your bait?" Jon wasn't terribly keen on the plan Holmes was outlining. If the man truly was innocent of the accusations being laid at his feet, then he would be taking an incredible risk. Should he be silenced before his innocence was proven, there would be no way of verifying there was another traitor within the service.

"Consider," Mycroft relaxed, fixing Smith with a penetrating look. "Your organisation has been involved in the unearthing of this allegedly treasonous plot from the very beginning," he said. "Yet it was an MI6 agent who discovered the letters in the Italian's safe, but rather than _that_ worthy agency taking responsibility for my interrogation, the documents were handed to your Chief who then arranged for you and Ms Croft to come to my department in order that the papers be further examined," he paused. "At no point has any other security or law-enforcement agency been involved, not even the Metropolitan police and yet virtually every element that might be required to convince you of my unequivocal guilt has been adequately supplied without any need for deeper investigation," he paused again, his eyebrows rising delicately. "One wonders _why_."

Smith chewed the inside of his lip. Everything Holmes said was accurate, although there was still something missing.

"But why would MI6 turn you over to us in the first place?" he asked, puzzled. "They could have handled the situation as easy as we can, _easier_, in fact," he looked blank. "They have less domestic oversight to contend with."

Remaining silent, Mycroft sat patiently as Smith's mind reasoned the conundrum through to its logical conclusion.

Becoming very still, the younger man looked up, his thoughts more chaotic than before. There were only two realistic explanations for such a turn of events.

Smiling, Mycroft waited for Smith to articulate his thinking: clearly there had been an epiphany of sorts.

"Either there's another mole," Smith said quietly, unbelievingly. "High up, in MI6, _or_," he sucked in a sharp breath, his expression as confused as it was incredulous. "Or this entire thing has been arranged at the very top from the very beginning," he hesitated again. "Which would mean that _you_ …" his voice tailed away.

"Yes," Mycroft raised his eyebrows again, nodding. "It does."

"You've been involved in this from the beginning?" Smith asked, the implications of this discovery peeling his understanding away like the layers of an onion.

"Before even that," Mycroft permitted himself a small smile.

"Now hang on a minute," Jon felt his brain unknitting. This was too confusing – the number of Chinese boxes in this situation was blurring his ability to see straight. "If you've been in this thing from the start, from _before_ the start, then this tells me …"

Mycroft said nothing, waiting.

"…Tells me that _you_ …" the younger man sat forward, searching for the right combination of words.

"_Yes_?" Mycroft was attentive.

"That you have been party to a plan which, from the outset was designed to identify and catch the _real_ traitor within MI5 ranks," Smith leaned back into his seat, dazed. "You planned all this?"

"What could be planned, yes," Mycroft nodded, looking down at his fingers. "Though there are always one or two peripheral events which cannot be absolutely prearranged as they depend upon the spontaneous reactions of others."

"Your brother and your wife?" Jon was curious. "Or were they part of the plan?"

"This entire operation has been on a need-to-know basis since its inception," Mycroft seemed momentarily ill at ease. "My brother's response was rational and therefore predictable, though my wife occasionally reacts in a spectacularly diametric manner, so there was an element of risk," the elder Holmes sounded philosophical. "Explanations will be required, I fear."

"You deliberately manipulated your _wife_ and your _brother_? They really thought you were arrested?" Smith was appalled.

A slow blink was Mycroft's only reaction.

"Any others?" Smith couldn't help but feel there was still more to this revelation.

"Only the most crucial of them all," Mycroft's smile thinned. "The mole."

"Have you a specific suspect?" Jon was riveted.

Mycroft stared, thinking. If too much were revealed too soon, there might be complications further down the road … however, contingencies were in place for precisely that possibility.

"I do not have a specific name as yet," he stated, his eyes fixed upon the young MI5 operative. "However I am prepared to tell you that it is most likely a mid-level agent, someone in the ranks, but possessing access to a more than usually high-level of information."

Smith thought for a moment. "That describes me," he said, quietly.

"Yes, it does, rather," Mycroft steepled his fingers, still staring at the younger man. "Among others."

"Am I a suspect?" lifting his head, Jon felt his breathing slow.

"Possibly," Mycroft frowned now, thinking. "But increasingly unlikely."

"So you have an alternative suspect?"

"You were one of several possibilities."

"Then how can you even be discussing all this in here?" Smith gestured at the room. "This place is under twenty-four hour audio-visual surveillance," he said. "Yet you've just given your entire plan away," he shook his head, exasperated. "Anyone could have heard our conversation."

"And what makes you think this room is under the usual surveillance?" Mycroft's smile became distant and knowing.

"This room is inevitably used for high-level interrogations …" Smith's voice faded. _It always was_. Always. _How easy it was to manipulate peoples' assumptions, even at this level_. "It isn't any more?"

"Not since we stepped through the door last night," Mycroft sighed charitably. Smith was still thinking in pedestrian terms. The _usual_ surveillance was not operational, but that did not exclude the _unusual_. "When I began your interrogation."

Jon felt dizzy. Who was interrogating whom? It was impossible, and yet … "Everything was a set-up?" he asked. "The letters really were faked?"

"The ones you saw are faked, yes," Mycroft nodded. "Some old documents with my signature were … _repurposed_ for the sake of verisimilitude. However, several weeks ago a number of genuine ones were discovered, written in a similar vein and which instigated the current operation. There is a real traitor attempting to use my name to achieve their ends."

"The woman and the photographs?"

"A repertory actor from Milton Keynes, I believe," Mycroft smiled briefly. I've not met the lady but she appears to have embraced her role with gusto."

"The maze of financial transactions?"

"All staged, Mr Smith," the elder Holmes felt a trifle impatient. "We _are_ putting on a show, here. Shall we move on?"

"So what now?" Jon asked, slowly. "Where to from here?"

"As discussed," Mycroft cleared his throat. "You will make arrangements for me to spend time tomorrow evening outside in the Tower-grounds, where I will partake of the delightful London twilight."

"And an assassin's bullet?" Jon cared for this idea less and less. "There is no way I can protect you outside," he shook his head. "Bad idea."

Mycroft folded his arms; his expression one of mild exasperation.

No. _Not possible_.

"You don't even need my protection, do you?" Smith was almost speechless. He shook his head again. There was _no way_ Holmes would have been able to plan this far ahead, charting out the pace and stages of their conversation: neither of them had left this room since last night; hadn't spoken to anyone beyond these walls. Timing would have been critical every step of the way since he was brought in yesterday evening and the man had not _once_ checked the Edwardian relic tucked inside his fob-pocket...

As if reading his thoughts, Mycroft pulled out his Hunter and checked the hour. It was now after nine on the second evening. Things were going to plan, however he had been awake for almost forty-five hours and would benefit from a modicum of rest.

"I require a little sleep and some food to maintain peak efficiency," he returned the watch to his pocket. "Shall we resume our discussion in, say, five hours?"

Five hours sleep and he'd still be as groggy as he was now, but Jon was too tired to argue. "Suits me," he nodded, rubbing his eyes. He stood, watching as Mycroft walked into the adjacent room: a tiny bedroom containing little more than a cot, a chair and a bedside table. From there, the occupant could access the even smaller bathroom containing nothing more exotic than a shower, sink and lavatory. For continuity of surveillance, the light was permanently on in both rooms: there wasn't even a light-switch in the bathroom.

The moment Mycroft stepped across the threshold, both rooms went dark.

A disbelieving grin crawling across his face, Smith felt slightly hysterical. Everything he thought he knew had just been turned on its head.

###

Sherlock stared back into a pair of dark and very angry eyes, remembering the notes Mycroft had seen fit to include in the Italian magnate's file. _Swift to anger and slow to forgive_ seemed to be the way of things. The man's only weaknesses were his beloved daughter and his own ego.

And that was the way out. _Risky_, but everything was risky. Flicking a glance across to Trentini's secretary, he saw the young man's expression had turned to one of horror, changing even as he watched into something more approaching righteous anger. He was clearly feeling deeply betrayed.

Turning away from the susceptible Paul's darkening features; Sherlock ignored him and spoke to his boss. "My editor sent me," he muttered, allowing a trace of panic to cross his face. "He wanted pictures of your house," he said. "Pictures of the private life you never allow into the public view."

"You are from _GQ_?" Trentini relaxed his shoulders fractionally and Sherlock noted the volume of the man's voice had dropped a noticeable number of decibels.

"_L'Espresso_," Sherlock shook his head then raised his eyes defiantly. "I didn't think you'd allow me in if I told the truth," he shrugged a shoulder. "My editor said we needed something that would impress people."

Accepting the implied compliment, the large Italian allowed his stance to relax a little more.

"You lied to my staff," he growled. "You are in my house as a trespasser."

"My name is Andino Savio," Sherlock offered. "I am a _giornalista fotografica_," he shrugged again. "It is my job to watch the important people in Roma," he made a face. "You hide yourself away too well for us _paparazzi_ to get anywhere."

Preening slightly beneath the subtle praise, Trentini took a half-step backwards, allowing Sherlock to stand up straighter.

"I do not permit your sort into my house for a very good reason," the industrialist was openly critical. "You are all untrustworthy dogs who would whore out your own sister if you felt it would get you a good shot of a celebrity."

_Trentini thought of himself as a celebrity, did he?_ Sherlock almost smiled.

"It's true," he nodded, reluctantly. "Although I pride myself that I have never lied with my photographs," he said, a note of fervour creeping into his voice.

Emiliano Trentini had seen everything there was to see in the years he'd been in business, but the pleasure having other people notice his style and acumen never really went away. It was a genuine thrill to accept the open admiration of others, of his peers. It was good that he might act as an inspiration and motivation to others less fortunate than himself; in fact, it was almost a civic _duty_ to do it when an opportunity like this came along. It was fate.

Watching the Italian's eyes flicker down and to the left and then to the right, saw his eyebrows rise slowly and a small smile cross his face, Sherlock felt a faint tingle of success. He had just watched a man make up his mind to be deceived. But a performance was still necessary.

"What will you do with me?" he asked nervously. "Will you summon the police? Please don't," he looked faintly rattled. "I'll be in enough trouble if I return without the star photographs I promised my editor this morning," he added. "If the police are involved as well, I may as well kiss my job goodbye …"

"Then maybe this is your lucky day, Signor Savio," Trentini's mouth curled a little. "I am feeling incredibly generous and have decided to give you what you have tried so hard to steal from me."

Making himself hesitate before speaking, Sherlock lifted his eyebrows as a modest ray of hope washed over his face. "You will permit?" he asked, lifting the Hasselblad a couple of centimetres.

"I will permit," Trentini lifted his hands in a grandiloquent gesture. "It is my pleasure to allow your camera in my humble home today."

"You are too generous, _Signor_," Sherlock's genteel bow hid the twitch of his lips.

Taking the lead in a tour of the mansion, Trentini also took the opportunity to wax lyrical about his magnificent charitable works, his enormous donations to worthy causes and the esteem in which he was held by his international peers.

Sherlock noted the man did not mention his long-term links with organised crime, the several slum-tenancy lawsuits currently being fielded by an impressive and exorbitantly overpaid legal team, or the fact that he had bought and paid for at least three senior politicians in the present Government. Nor, the younger Holmes noted with faint satisfaction, did the man appear to suspect anything was amiss with a _giornalista_ taking endless pictures using an old camera which never required a new film. The fact that there wasn't a film inside the camera to begin with was neither here nor there.

The grand promenade proceeded through the various ground-floor rooms; ballroom, drawing room, a library so immense it put many public ones to shame.

Sherlock was becoming intensely weary of the man's constant self-aggrandizement, as well as frustrated by the fact that he'd managed to deploy only two of his three micro-transmitters. He needed entry to the master bedroom in order to install the final one before he could remove himself from this increasingly nauseating atmosphere of condescension and arrogance.

"Dare I presume to ask if my paper's readers might see your bedroom?" Sherlock looked candid, a faint smile curling the corner of his mouth. "We have many, _many_ lady readers who would be … fascinated by a glimpse of the very private _Il Trentini_," he murmured. "Their collective hearts would beat a little faster, and their dreams would be a little sweeter if you would but offer the merest glimpse of the celebrated and secretive aristocrat living in the centre of the world's greatest city."

Maintaining his coy smile, Sherlock felt increasingly repelled. If he didn't get out of this very soon he would be ill.

Trentini's face was alight with an almost sexual self-satisfaction; the idea that he would be the focus of thousands of women was most gratifying. "I take your point," he stroked his chin knowingly. "I am certain any woman would be impressed by my style," his voice smug and indulgent.

Sherlock fancied he might vomit.

Following in the train of a small procession comprising of Trentini, Paul, himself and the large guard, Sherlock finally walked through the doorway of his objective. The master bedroom.

With its overload of ebonised wood, carved marble and antique gilt, it spoke little of pleasure, less of sleep and far too much of second-rate bordello. That someone might conceive of this as actual _style_ had Sherlock reaching for his sunglasses. How anyone as wealthy as Trentini, who clearly bought other people's taste by the cartload, could imagine such repugnant décor was in any way connected to sophistication was beyond comprehension.

"May I …," Sherlock looked from Trentini to the loathsome thing that was his bed. "May I photograph what has undoubtedly been the site of countless _romanza_?" he asked archly.

"My bed?" Trentini hesitated, then grinned immodestly. "_Of course_," he nodded. "One doesn't like to boast, but, _well_ …" he spread his hands wide, a louche smile wide across his features.

Instantly, Sherlock was bounding around the carapaced monstrosity, his fingers straightening out a long fold of covering, sliding momentarily beneath the frame.

Standing back up, Sherlock sighed extravagantly. "It is done," he nodded in satisfaction. "I have the greatest photographs of my career, and now I must go and begin the terrible business of choosing which ones would best showcase your magnificent home."

"I understand," Trentini nodded sagely. "Of course, you will show them to me before publication so I may be sure my privacy will not be disturbed."

"Naturally, Signor," Sherlock was already backing out of the room, wondering momentarily where the young and beauteous Paul had gone. Retracing their steps back down to the entrance-hall, almost reaching the safety of the front door when the Major-domo returned, an unpleasantly malevolent expression on his face and a mobile phone in his hand.

"Your paper is _L'Espresso_, you say?" he spoke deliberately, his tone acidic.

Sherlock stood slowly upright. He had been so close.

Trentini frowned in confusion. "And what of this?" he demanded. "He admitted as much."

"I have the editor of _L'Espresso_ on the phone right now," the young secretary smiled coldly. "He says he's never heard of a journalist called Andino Savio, nor has anyone been sent from the paper to this house to obtain photographs," he added with finality. "This man has attempted to deceive us twice."

Turning back, Trentini's face fell into a ferocious scowl as he snatched the phone from his secretary's fingers, almost yelling in his peremptory anger.

Paul stood by, his feelings at least partly assuaged, as Sherlock turned to him with a piteous look in his eyes. "It was for you I did this," he hissed, turning swiftly away as Trentini threw the phone at his startled assistant.

"_Bastardo!_" the industrialist was too incensed to say more. Not only had this stranger lied his way into this, the most private of all his homes, but the man had done it twice within the same afternoon! It was beyond endurance, and Emeliano Trentini was not universally noted for his tolerance and charity.

"Throw him in one of the old wine cellars," he snarled at the looming guard. "I will consider the most suitable reparation for such an unprecedented disrespect of my home and my good nature."

Grabbed violently by the shoulder and lapel of his jacket, Sherlock found himself overwhelmed by the sheer size and weight of the guard now intent upon dragging him bodily across the marble floor. Undeterred, knowing the excessive dimensions of his assailant would work against him in certain circumstances, Sherlock finally regained his balance, swivelling neatly on the toes of one foot while the heel of the other stamped down hard upon an expensively clad Italian foot. The man grunted in pain, almost releasing his grip upon the fabric of Sherlock's suit, instinct making him grip even tighter, his fist clenching and constricting the collar. Unable to deter the guard, unable even to wriggle out of his coat, Sherlock was about to jab the man's larynx with an elbow, when the cold muzzle of a costly Tanfoglio handgun made its presence felt beneath his right ear.

"These are marble tiles, _Signor_," Trentini's words were soft and vicious. "The only mess your brains would make would be on the suit of my bodyguard, and I can well afford to buy him a new suit. Stop your struggles or we will see the colour of your blood."

There was a note in the Italian's voice which advised Sherlock this was no jest, and he allowed his muscles to relax. About to regain a more balanced footing, Sherlock never saw the butt of the handgun as it swung towards his temple, registering only a searing pain as he was clubbed. Even the pain was momentary as he slumped down to the chill stone floor in total stupor.

Time passed.

Sense gradually returned and Sherlock found himself in a dim, silent place that smelled of cold and dust. A single dull bulb near the rough-cast ceiling provided the only illumination. Blinking his eyes to clear the blur, he listened for noise, for any sound that might suggest a location, but there was nothing, not the endless traffic of the Via Veneto, nor the sound of voices, not even the sound of mechanical or electronic activity. This room was obviously deep underground and well-insulated.

Clambering cautiously to his feet, his head throbbing with every movement, he touched fingertips to his face, wincing as they came away sticky, though the actual bleeding had stopped, meaning he had been unconscious for at least ten minutes. Looking back at the sand-covered stone floor, he saw several dark drops soaked into the absorbent surface, but that was all. They must had left him bleeding on the marble for a while, before bringing him here or there would have been a great deal more blood in the sand.

Checking his jacket-pockets, he found them entirely empty. They had searched him quite thoroughly. His phone was gone, as was his wallet, filled with interesting business cards and cash, and his penknife. Fortunate, then, he had managed to plant the third and final micro-transmitter under Trentini's hideous bed before he'd been denounced. There was no chance that any of them could break the password on his phone, although the cards might raise a couple of eyebrows. The worst they might suspect him of being at this point was a scam-artist.

Looking around, Sherlock observed he was indeed in an old wine-cellar, the walls clad in an empty storage gridwork and with old oak barrels stacked in various corners. There were no windows and only the one faint electric light above him and the single door. It was suspiciously solid: great blackened slabs of iron bolted through with medieval efficiency. The wood itself was ancient, near-petrified oak, so dense it wouldn't burn in anything less than a total conflagration.

Perching himself on a barrel, Sherlock reviewed the situation.

He was locked in a seemingly impregnable underground cellar in a strange city, in the house of one of his brother's greatest enemies with no way to summon assistance and no hope of escape. They could leave him here to starve to death and nobody would be any the wiser.

_Hmm_.

###

Cate's heart leaped in shock. She wasn't sure what to say: her idea of playing the 'lost' tourist probably wouldn't wash under these particular circumstances.

"Are you a _thief_?" the man demanded, abruptly. "What are you trying to steal?"

Stung by the incorrectness of his easy assumption, Cate stood even straighter, lifting her eyes to his. "I'm a teacher," she announced indignantly, "and I'm not here to steal anything.'

"Then what the bloody hell are you doing _in my office_?" the man demanded once again. "This is _not_ open to the public and seeing as we're clear over the other side of the castle from the public viewing section, I'm sure you won't be surprised if I find your presence in my home both offensive and questionable."

Cate thought. Mycroft was always able to tell when she was lying. It never seemed fair when just about everything he ever mentioned, no matter how unlikely, sounded sincere. _Perhaps, after all, it had been,_ she realised.

"How can you be so sure I'm lying?" she'd asked him crossly one afternoon when she'd tried, really _tried_, to tell a believable lie. It had only been a small one: that she was thinking of changing her hair colour, but he'd smiled fondly, hugged her to his side and whispered in her ear. "_Good try_."

When she'd complained of the unfairness of the situation, he'd wrapped himself around her, smiling down, an affection in his eyes that bordered on the uxorious.

"You don't look like you're telling the truth," he stroked the hair back from her vexed face. "It's not even _what_ you say," he added, still smiling. "But your mind knows it's a lie and so does your body," his voice became intimate as he brought her closer. "How much do you love me?"

"I don't love you at all," Cate attempted to push him away, impervious to his teasing laugh. "I find you quite unendurable, in fact," she added with a certain vehemence.

"D_arling_," Mycroft's voice dropped softly as his lips found _that_ place beneath her ear. "I don't love you either," he added, his smile deepening as she shivered in his embrace. "At times I can barely stand to have you in my arms," he added, his silent laughter shaking them both.

Her eyes were caught by his and her abdominal muscles clenched as they always did when he looked at her like this. "I despise and loathe you," Cate murmured, her breath catching as Mycroft's thumb stroked across the corner of her mouth. "You are the most disagreeable man I've ever known."

"And you are, without doubt, the most insufferable woman of my acquaintance," his voice was light, playful, and Cate's stomach shimmied with feeling. "You are odious," he whispered, kissing her gently. "_Hateful_," his kiss lingered. "Entirely detestable," his whisper faded as the softness of her mouth demanded his full attention.

"Vile and atrocious man," Cate slid her fingers up through his hair and pulled him down to her, taking his kiss and making it her own.

The trick, it seemed, was to make the lie an _almost_-truth, or at the very least, not entirely _untruthful_.

Faced now with a question that she simply could not afford to answer honestly, Cate recalled Mycroft's advice and looked for an not entirely untruthful lie. Linking her fingers nervously together at her waist, she slipped the wedding-ring from her left hand, clasping it tightly in her right palm.

"I'm writing a book," she stuttered, embarrassed. "A novel. It's about spies and I wanted one of the major scenes to be in a large castle just like this one," she looked around. "I bought a ticket to see the place at night but the guide only took us to rooms without any personal character at all," she watched the man's face, uncertain of his reaction. "I saw the roped-off passageway and I stepped through without even realising what I was doing, and then I got lost," Cate turned back to look at the door. "I saw what looks like an external exit at the end of this passageway," she said, pointing out of the room in what she thought was the right direction. "But as I passed by this room," again, she looked around, the books strewn on the table, the computers, the enlarged and aerial photographs adorning the walls, "I just wanted to get the feel of the place so whatever I wrote would be real," she stopped, looked down. "I'm dreadfully sorry," she added, looking up, shamefaced. "I'm genuinely not a thief."

"If you wanted to have a private viewing of the castle, why didn't you ask for one?" the man's body-language said he was still angry, but at least the tone of his voice had moderated fractionally.

Cate took a deep breath. "It simply didn't occur to me to ask," she said. "I'm rather new at the book-writing business."

Surprisingly, the man laughed. "Let's hope you're a better writer than you are a trespasser," he said. "You're lucky if I don't summon the constable."

Sighing, Cate shrugged and made a rueful face. "If you want to do that," she said. "I won't make a fuss," she added. "This is your home and I've overstepped the boundaries. You must do what you think is right."

"And you'd make a bloody deplorable criminal anyway," the man's shoulders relaxed now and he returned his attention to the unlit cigarette in his fingers. "I bet you'd even be the first to admit culpability in a road accident."

Lifting her eyebrows, Cate felt her inner tension ease a little. That the man wasn't immediately threatening her with violence and all manner of extreme penalties for trespassing, was a good sign, she thought.

"My name is Catherine," she offered, extending her hand. "Catherin Adin," she said. "I teach." _Not a complete untruth_.

Looking at her with a peculiar expression on his face, the man stepped forward from the nest of chairs.

"My name is Andrew Munro," he responded, taking her hand in his own and shaking it lightly. "I earl."

_Oh hell_, Cate tensed. The Earl of Tain himself. One of Mycroft's most avowed adversaries.

Taking in the instant widening of her eyes and the horrified expression that settled on her features, Munro couldn't help but laugh again. His unofficial guest was genuinely mortified.

"I have the strangest urge to offer you tea," he shook his head. "Would you like some?"

Her throat dry with alarm, Cate could only nod. "Please," she whispered, swallowing to ease the sudden tension of her jaw.

"Very well," he looked amused and walked to a phone half-hidden beneath piles of paper on the immense table that dominated the room. Requesting tea for two in the office, Munro gestured Cate towards a second door at the opposite end of the room to the fireplace.

"Let's go somewhere a little more comfortable and you can tell me about this book you're new at writing," he said, clearly expecting her to precede him into the next room. Unwilling to give the man any further cause for suspicion, Cate bit her lip but walked through the door.

It led into another office, but this one was far more private, book-lined, with beautiful old rugs on the floor, heavy brocaded drapes curtaining the deep mullioned windows and a great stone-carved mantle at the very furthest end, above a fireplace that was a matching pair to the one in the first office.

Yet another desk featured in this room, and Cate could not but help applying Mycroft's analysis and evaluation technique.

Of old, dark wood, and liberally covered in files and papers, the Earl's private desk was substantial and spoke of the weight of history. There were two bands of heavily-carved embellishments: the upper band of incised carvings around the top edge of the desk showed a fleet of ships crossing what had to be the sea, from one coast to another, each ship flying long, curlicued war-banners that twisted and writhed in the wind. The one around the base of the piece, showed a less cheerful scene, with the fleet of ships broken and sinking, some scuttled on fanged rocks, some being blow before the wind. The remainder of the back, and, from what she could see, the sides too, were decorated in an almost abstract Moorish design. The surface of the thing, at least what was visible beneath the papers, was thick with the wear and syrupy shine of centuries. Even its ancient scars had been worn into a preserved kind of beauty. It was a wonderful article of furniture and Cate couldn't restrain her small murmur of admiration. It was an ancient and exquisite piece.

"You approve of my desk?" the Earl noticed her pleased expression. "You have excellent taste then, _Ms_ …" his eyes scanned Cate's hands and saw the absence of rings. "Ms Adin," he nodded. "It's an Elizabethan piece," he added. "The _First_ Elizabeth."

"I can see," Cate moved closer, trailing her fingertips across the gleaming wood panels thick with contrasting designs. "This must have taken months to carve and put together," she said. "Looks almost like a Vargueño," she added. "It has the age and the right style, although," she frowned a little. "It's odd," she observed. "It looks as if two very different hands have been at work here," she said, pointing to the panels of delicate design and the heavily-carved borders.

"And you know your sixteenth-century Spanish furniture," Munro said. "What is it you actually teach?"

"_Um_, English," Cate was increasingly puzzled by the enigma of the desk. Ignoring Munro, she knelt to touch the base panel where the ships were shown as foundering wrecks.

"_Ah_," she stood abruptly, smiling. She'd worked it out. "It _is_ a sixteenth-century Spanish piece," she nodded. "But the two borders have been added later and carved by a different joiner," she smiled to herself. "That's why it looks so odd." Cate looked up at the Earl of Tain. "It's a salvage piece, isn't it?" she asked. "This came from an Armada ship?"

"Aye, it is at that," Munro perched on a corner of the desk and folded his arms. "My many-times great grandfather was Laird of Tain when the storms blew Phillip's war-fleet to hell on the local rocks," he said. "We have a number of Spanish salvage items in the castle; the desk is my favourite, though." He stood, his eyebrows raised. "I can also see how you might have left the public tour without realising you had done so," he added. "If that little display of absent-minded preoccupation was anything to judge by."

Making a face, Cate shrugged again. "I know," she looked pained. "I can't help it once my brain goes off on a tangent, I don't even realise I'm doing it. Please forgive my rudeness."

Munro shook his head, a smile on his lips as the black-suited butler knocked and entered bearing a large silver tray with tea-things. The butler looked askance at Cate's presence, but said nothing as he placed the tray on the desk at Munro's gesture.

"Shall I pour, Sir?"

"No thank you, Finley," the Earl took the large leather seat behind the desk. "My guest will take care of that, won't you, Ms Adin?"

"After my inexcusable entry," Cate smiled as she lifted the heavy teapot. "The least I can do is pour you tea."

Filling two cups, she let her hand hover between the milk jug and the small dish of lemon slices. "Milk or lemon?" she asked.

"Milk for me, please," Munro watched her deft movements with interest as she handed him his cup. "You know your way around a tea-service as well," he observed.

"Teachers pick up the oddest things," she smiled, hoping the man wasn't going to start asking awkward questions. She'd managed to seem credible up until now because she'd been able to use the truth, or at least, an _element_ of the truth as cover for her lies. If the Earl started quizzing her on really difficult things, Cate wasn't sure she'd be able to lie so convincingly.

"And just where is it you teach English, Catherine?" Munro sipped his tea, watching her face.

"In London," she met his eyes openly. "But I'm taking a pile of leave I've accrued and had the desire to write a novel, with spies travelling all over the country, having adventures and doing whatever it is that spies do."

About to comment that what spies often did was get caught sneaking into other people's homes, the Earl's mobile phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, standing and stepping away.

Momentarily free of Munro's gaze, Cate allowed herself a deep, silent exhalation. She'd managed the situation so far, but every question the man asked her now might be the one that brought the entire performance crashing to a halt. She had to get out of here.

Thinking frantically of a way out of the situation, Cate's eyes came to rest on the folders of paper on the opposite side of the wonderful Spanish desk. Even upside-down, the name on the front of the topmost file was clearly legible and reading it set her heart racing.

_Mycroft Holmes._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six **

_No Love Lost – The Promise of Cain – The Devil's Stone – We Wear the Same Tie – Kings Have Slept here._

#

#

It was a little after three in the morning by the time Smith dragged himself back to Room Four in the top-secret, subterranean Tower vault. In the interval since he'd left the place, he'd managed to achieve exactly four-and-a-half hours sleep; a twenty minute wait for sleep to arrive and then ten minutes for a mug of lukewarm microwaved tomato soup and a quick shower after he'd awoken. The remaining thirty minutes of his absence had been spent sluggishly wading through his thoughts on what had been discussed before midnight. None of these activities had been terribly satisfying. And now he was back. Walking in through the door he noticed there'd been a few small changes since he left the previous evening.

The table and interview chairs were still there, but moved across to one side of the room. The table now hosted a coffee machine, busily producing that most aromatic and fragrant of beverages; a plate of delicately-made sandwiches and pasties, plus a selection of bottled waters, ice and glassware. The reason the table and chairs were right across the room was the additional seating arrangement that had encroached on the remaining space. Two large and comfortable dark leather arm-chairs faced each other across a low coffee-table.

Mycroft Holmes was already ensconced in the chair furthest from the door, his legs elegantly crossed, his hands clasping a sheaf of printed pages through which he was reading at an impressive pace.

"Good morning, Mr Smith," he looked up briefly, the faintest of smiles flickered across his face. "Sleep well?"

Examining the seated man, Smith was again taken by surprise.

Looking as fresh as if he'd just stepped out of his own front door after a long and restful night's sleep and a leisurely breakfast, Holmes was dressed in a fresh suit, a crisp clean shirt and had recently shaved. His hair appeared slightly damp in patches. Jon almost snorted with disbelief: Holmes was even sporting different cufflinks.

"At least one of us did," he looked envious. "I'm going to try some of that coffee," he headed towards the table. "You game?"

"_Mmm_," Mycroft frowned down at the page he was reading. It was an update on certain developments since he'd been sequestered beneath the Tower. There was one particular point that plucked at his thoughts in a worrying way.

As Smith took the chair opposite, Mycroft handed him the sheet of paper. "Tell me what you think of this," he said.

Reading swiftly down through the closely printed lines, Jon saw it was a summary of activities surrounding one particular individual.

"The Earl of Tain is in residence?" he asked, carefully. "That's Scotland, I assume?"

"Indeed," Mycroft pursed his lips and looked ominous. "Scotland."

"And what's happening with the Earl of Tain that makes him of interest?" Smith cast about, seeking the thread of relevance.

"Andrew Munro, Earl of Tain," Mycroft said. "Is one of the possible prime movers in this scenario. Apart from the fact there is no love lost between he and I on a personal level, I appear to be the main obstacle standing between the Laird of Tain and his political ambitions."

"Which are?"

"To take Scotland out of the British Union as far and as fast as might be conceived, regardless of the political or economic climate," Mycroft's expression turned unfriendly. "Man's a myopic hyper-nationalist," his jaw tightened. "That the realisation of his goal would compound local unemployment and create massive industrial upheaval and economic disaster in Scotland from Dumfries to Wick, seems to trouble him not at all." He frowned, his brow knitted. "I have been able to slow his indecent rush and ease the situation a little, but suspect the Earl will not be happy until he has achieved his aims or brought the entire country down around his ears," Mycroft frowned even more. "He has the political clout, the financial wherewithal and enough blind faith in his cause to render him an incredibly destructive force," he paused and looked funereal.

"So, not someone you'd cross without good reason," Jon sipped his coffee.

"Not without good reason _and_ solid support. That castle of his is so well-fortified; it'd take an armoured division and two battalions of infantry to force him out." Mycroft sniffed and considered. "Conceivably, the Royal Engineers might play a role."

"And this man, being who he is and where he is, is a problem, how?" Smith felt his brain begin to kick properly awake as the coffee did its job.

Handing him a second sheet of paper, Mycroft remained gloomy, but said nothing. Reading the two brief paragraphs, the younger man felt his eyebrows lift in understanding. The information concerned Holmes' brother and wife.

The brother had taken an afternoon flight to Rome, at which point surveillance had suspended. The wife … had booked a seat on an internal flight up to Inverness, where she had rented a hire-car and driven north. _Scotland_.

Lifting his eyes, Jon met the dark-blue gaze of the man sitting opposite.

"Scotland?" he asked, thoughtful. "Inverness?"

"Just over an hour's drive from Castle Tain," Mycroft exhaled heavily. "Cate mentioned Scotland during her little performance yesterday and at the time I thought it nothing more than dramatic affect. It seems I was wrong," his stare darkened. "If Sherlock has gone to Italy, then my wife and Sherlock's colleague, Dr John Watson, would have gone to Scotland for very similar reasons."

"And why is that so problematic?" Smith asked, though he had a feeling he already knew.

"This report says that only _one_ ticket was purchased for the Inverness flight," Mycroft's voice was flat. "My wife has gone to Scotland, to Tain, _alone_."

"To do what?" Jon sat forward, an echo of Mycroft's frown shadowing his face.

Leaning back in his armchair, Mycroft sighed softly. "She's gone to acquire proof of my innocence," he murmured. "Cate has decided to salvage my honour by bearding the lion in his den," he paused. "She promised she wouldn't do this again," he muttered, passing a hand momentarily over his eyes. "She has to be stopped before she gets into serious difficulties."

Jon considered that statement. _Again?_ _Was Cate Holmes more than she seemed?_

"Does she have any idea of the situation?" his MI5 training rose to the surface as Smith thought through a series of probabilities. "Does she know how dangerous this man is?"

_Cate had read his private files._ "She would have some understanding, certainly," Mycroft shook his head slowly now, faintly agonised. "But knowing my wife, it would make no difference if she did or not."

"Can she take care of herself?"

_Can you, my darling? _Mycroft's memory flickered from instance to instance of Cate _taking_ _care_ of herself. "Yes, she can," he nodded, though his mouth was dry. "Up to a point. But if Munro were to discover her connection to _me_ …"

"And you want her back in one piece?" Smith recalled the woman's impassioned fury of yesterday morning, even if it _was_ faked. "Quite sure?"

There was no response, but fierce blue eyes stabbed up at him from beneath lowered brows.

_Ah._ Right.

Looking down at his fingers, Smith made the only decision possible. To tempt the real traitor, Holmes was essential bait. To catch the conspirator, the bait needed to be _here_, in London, where it was expected to be.

"I'll be off then," finishing his coffee, Jon stood and left the room.

Two breaths later and to no-one in particular, Mycroft uttered a single word. "_Parsifal_."

###

He had found an old bottle of what had once been some kind of white wine but was now vinegar. Moistening his handkerchief, Sherlock dabbed it gingerly against the deep graze ornamenting his left temple. It stung like blazes, but took away some of the caked-on dried-blood feeling. Probably killed off any germs too, the way it burned.

He was still no further forward in solving his current predicament. If he attempted to use any one of five possible ways to start a fire among the combustibles in the cellar, the smoke would suffocate him before a rescue might be anticipated. He could shout himself hoarse but nobody would hear him down here. The lock on the door was as ancient as the house and took a key the approximate size of a 5/16 British Standard spanner: there was very little likelihood of him being able to pick it, even if he had the old hacksaw blade and two Allen keys he would need to do the job. Nor was there a window, an air-vent or a drain. The only way out was the only way in. _Annoying_.

About to curl up in one of the corners and contemplate a functional solution to the problem, he heard the muffled thud of heavy feet descending, pausing at the other side of the door. He stood, waiting.

Flinging the heavy oak wide, Trentini's bodyguard stepped into the cellar, his massive hand almost engulfing the small pistol clenched within his fingers.

"_Fuori_," he motioned with the gun. "_Out_."

Summoning his dignity, Sherlock straightened his jacket and walked out knowing the guard was leaving sufficient distance between them so that any attack would most likely be met by a bullet. Resisting the urge to test this hypothesis, Sherlock sprinted lightly up the stairs, observing as he did, signs that something had recently been dragged down them. That would have been him, of course.

Walking back across the cool marble floor of the ground foyer, he noticed that all signs of altercation had been erased. They reached a pair of open double-doors. The guard indicated to step inside.

"Tell me why I should not have you shot and your body dumped in the Tiber," calmed now, Trentini was sitting in a pale leather chair, smoking a Dominican cheroot. The fragrance of burning tobacco made Sherlock's senses twitch. Adopting an unabashed insouciance he looked around the room, spotting a heavy silver box at the Italian's left hand. Utterly ignoring Trentini's increasingly surprised regard, he strolled over and took out one of the slim cigars. Using the adjacent crystal lighter, Sherlock held onto the resulting smoke with every sign of enjoyment. Taking one of the seats opposite, he sank down, drawing the smoke in again with the cheroot gripped between his teeth. He grinned hugely.

"I can give you something you want," he smiled confidently, all journalistic pretence gone now, his British accent clear and unmistakable.

The Italian's eyes, widening at the little display of insolence, opened even wider at the realisation the fake GQ, fake L'Espresso and now fake compatriot was in fact an Englishman. "And what do you think you have to offer someone such as myself?" Trentini's voice was lethally-soft and loaded with menace.

Sherlock grinned even more, puffing again on the dark cigarillo with every evidence of contentment.

"I can give you Mycroft Holmes," he smiled, happily.

###

Her eyes glued to the file on the Earl's desk, Cate tried to slow the race of her pulse. Mycroft's private Ultrafile had made no secret about the danger this man posed, and no matter how civilised Munro might seem, Cate knew she had to be on her guard, especially now she realised what she had to do. Not only place the remaining two micro-transmitters, but to get hold of the file on his desk and get it back to London.

At that thought, she saw she was in the perfect place right now to fulfil at least part of this goal, especially with Munro still talking on the phone. Sliding down to her knees, she made as if to examine the lower carving in closer detail, stroking her fingertips across the deeply incised and much-polished design. It was the work of a second to slide her fingers from her pocket and underneath the base of the desk, attaching one of the tiny plastic devices with a quick press of her fingers. Still kneeling, she realised the Earl had concluded his call and was watching her.

"This is really intriguing," she said, brushing a few specks of dust from one grimly realistic carving. "There was genuine passion here," Cate sat back on her heels to see him staring down at her with curious eyes. "Whoever did this wasn't simply carving an historic record," she added, lifting her gaze to examine the upper border. "They were there when it happened," she touched a vessel being blown before the wind. "They watched these ships sink."

"That's an insightful observation," Munro smiled, his genteel Scottish accent oddly warmed. "The man who did this carving was one of my ancestor's gillies, who also had a fair turn with a knife," he said. "There are several other carvings of his in the castle."

"Really?" Cate looked enthusiastic. "I'd love to see them … I mean," she stopped, awkward. "I'm sorry," she apologised, closing her eyes in brief embarrassment. "I barge into your home and promptly begin making demands of you. I'm so sorry," she shook her head.

Watching the woman's expression as she talked about his desk, the way her eyes found the smallest details in the engraving and the absorbed sympathy of her fingers as they caressed the worn carving, sent a strange warmth through Munro's chest. In his forty years of privileged living, there had been any number of females in his life, many of them far more glamorous than this brown-haired teacher from London, and all of whom he had managed to keep at arms-length. Yet the way this one smiled and the way her eyebrows twitched with humour, had him oddly hopeful for more of both. He had no idea quite why, but despite her unorthodox entry into his home, he liked her. There was something about her that was familiar. But who did she remind him of? And how would he know her? He was certain they had never met.

He smiled a little. "It's refreshing to talk to someone who understands the importance of these historic things, of their place in Scottish culture," Munro nodded, pleased. "I'd happily give you a complete tour of the castle and show you anything you'd like to see," he added. "Tomorrow, if you like?" he suggested, tentatively. "Where are you staying?"

"Staying?" Cate was thrown. She hadn't thought about staying anywhere; her mind focused only on her immediate task to the exclusion of all else.

"Don't tell me you've come all the way up here and not got yerself a place to stay for the night?"

The almost comical expression of realisation on her face made it clear that was precisely the case. She had been so focused on simply getting into the castle that Cate had given no thought whatsoever to what might happen next. Had she even considered staying in Scotland the night? Apparently she was now.

"There'll be an hotel or a bed-and-breakfast in the town," she said, confidently.

"There's the hotel, for sure," Munro looked less than optimistic. "Usually full to the brim at this time of the year, though. Wait a wee while and I'll have Finley check and see."

Summoning the butler, the request was made.

While they were waiting, the Earl brought Cate back through into the main office, showing her on some of the aerial photographs of the nearby coast where the Armada ships had been wrecked. The coastline around the castle looked fiercesome and wild, not a place for the faint-hearted on a dark and stormy night. The wrecked Spaniards must have died terrified.

Munro was about to show her some of the nearby Tain family portraits when Finley returned, a dour expression on his face.

"I'm very sorry, Your Lordship," he sounded dutifully sincere. "Not only is the _View of Firth_ fully booked, but Mrs Ludden's Guest House is likewise full, as is the Backpacker's Hostel."

"Then it looks like I'll be driving back to Inverness for the night," smiling, Cate shrugged. "My own fault," she admitted. "I was so wrapped up in getting here, I didn't think it through, I'm afraid." Cate was starting to get a handle on how Mycroft lied so fluently when it suited him to do so: not so much direct untruths, but rather, oblique inexactitudes. She could do this. She could lie, this way.

"You surely cannot be thinking of driving all the way back to Inverness tonight?" Munro frowned. "Even during the summer, the ways can be treacherous and misleading, and it gets very dark out along these country roads. It's no a good idea," he scowled and shook his head.

"Then I can sleep in my car," Cate smiled. "There's plenty of room for me to stretch out, although if I might be able to borrow an old rug or something, I'd be most grateful."

"As if I'd let you sleep in your car," the Earl's voice was dryly amused. "And give the lie to Scottish hospitality? Are ye havered, woman?"

Ignoring Cate's protestations, Munro directed the butler to arrange the Jacobean room to be readied for their unexpected guest, and to let Chef know there'd be an extra place for dinner.

"Sir," Finley, a consummate example of his profession, moved smartly away to do his master's bidding.

Feeling that events were taking on a surreal life of their own, Cate demurred. "I cannot possibly accept your Lordship's invitation, generous though it is," she said. "Your offer, while incredibly considerate, is…"

"We dine early in these parts," he said, interrupting and motioning her to the door of the office. "Shall we have a drink before dinner?" he suggested, passing over Cate's refusal as if he'd heard nothing. He turned, a question on his face. "Did you remember to pack anything for your trip?" he asked, a faintly teasing smile on his mouth. "An overnight bag, perhaps?"

"Actually, I did," Cate raised her eyebrows, allowing a likewise mocking note to enter her voice. "It's in my car, in your visitor's car park."

"I'll have Finley collect it for you and put it in your room," he said, extending a hand towards her. "Keys?"

There was no way she was letting anyone into her car and certainly nowhere near her bag. There might be something in there that could give her away.

"Your Lordship is again too kind," she said, tartly. "However, I come from a long line of Welsh Socialists and am highly trained in the collection of my own bags."

Munro smiled.

Too late, Cate realised that this was an implicit agreement to stay the night. If she had any sense, she'd just get back into her car and drive directly to Inverness and fly back to London, however the image of Mycroft still in handcuffs came back to her with a cold sinking feeling. Whatever she had to do to help him prove his innocence, she would do it, even if she had to stay in Scotland longer than she wanted. Even if it meant spending the night in the home of the very person who might be involved in the conspiracy. Thanking her foresight in taking up Hapkido, at least if anything funny happened, Cate hoped she would be able to deal with it and get to her car before any alarm was raised.

With an entertained twist to his lips and bowing his head, Munro walked with her to the door at the end of the wide passage. "Head round to your left," he said, his fingers pointing directions for her. "Keep walking until you come to the red hut, and take the next left again … ah, _damn it all_, come on," he said, briefly touching her elbow and stepping outside into the still-warm evening.

On this long summer evening at such a Northern latitude, though the sun was just starting its way down, there were already brilliant streaks of deepest crimson and blue in the still-light skies above. The sound of kittiwakes screaming over the cliffs and the faint flit of summer swallows around the castle walls were lovely things. Even knowing Munro was Mycroft's sworn enemy; Cate couldn't help but appreciate the place – the man himself, come to that. She must be more tired than she thought.

Following the Earl's long-legged steps, it took less than a minute to reach the visitor's car park and her rental-car. Swiftly unlocking the vehicle, she reached into the back seat and dragged her overnight bag out onto the gravel at her feet while she closed the door and thumbed the central-locking closed. Before she could reach down to heft it, Munro had grasped the bag's handles and whisked it up and away.

"Shall we be having that drink now?" he asked, retracing their steps and entering the castle through the same side-door they had left. Within moments, they had entered the lounge that Cate had managed to bug earlier. She forced herself not to look at the occasional table now hosting one of Sherlock's little gadgets.

Dropping Cate's luggage onto a chair, the Earl moved to an enormous polished walnut sideboard that dominated one wall of the large room.

"Scotch?" he asked, already lifting a half-emptied bottle bearing a famous label of malt.

"I don't drink Scotch, I'm afraid," Cate shrugged lightly as Munro turned back to face her, his face frozen, but overlaid with an icy, disbelieving horror. His drawn eyebrows and stricken expression said it all.

"You _are_ joking?"

Despite the danger of the situation and the stakes at risk, Cate couldn't help but find the moment funny. Looking fractionally sheepish, she shook her head. "Can't stand the stuff," she found a seat and crossed her legs, relaxing. "Makes me ill."

"If anything were to announce you as a foreigner, that would be it," he condemned. "What _do_ you drink, assuming you drink at all," he asked.

"Gin and tonic, if you have any, please."

"An effete libation, suitable only for Left-wing intellectuals, inbred Englishmen and feeble-minded Protestants," Munro scorned, putting ice in a glass.

"Unlike Malt Scotch," Cate raised an eyebrow. "Preferred around the world by low-browed Capitalists, dilettante grandees, and incense-crazed Papists," her voice a little scathing. "Your _Lordship_."

"_Touché_," the Earl tipped his head to one side smiling and handing Cate her drink. They clinked glasses. "Call me Andrew," he said. "I think this situation is already far beyond the formal, don't you?"

Beginning to wonder what this man could have done to win Mycroft's lasting enmity, Cate thought Munro seemed perfectly civilised and genuine. His manners were refined, his tastes educated and his knowledge of the world was clearly that of a thinking, rational person. The Earl of Tain was usually the type of person with whom Mycroft would _seek_ conversation, not consider an antagonist. Either Mycroft was wrong, or there was something she hadn't yet seen. Admittedly, the latter was more likely, but whatever it was, she had no idea why the two of them could not resolve their problems through dialogue.

Dinner was suitably impressive, with asparagus soup followed by lobster stuffed with king crab and celery. Then there was a desert that seemed to rely heavily on dark chocolate, pear meringue and pistachio ice-cream, followed by some wonderfully aromatic coffee.

Despite the acknowledged strangeness of the situation, the meal was oddly pleasurable and Munro found himself playing the genial host without restraint. Even more peculiar than the situation itself was the perplexing sense of familiarity between him and his impulsive guest. She was a teacher from London for God's sake: she knew nothing of him or his world, and yet … _and yet_ … it felt as if he'd known her for years. Delighted that Chef had seen fit to outdo even her usual culinary brilliance, Munro was equally gratified by Catherine's frank enjoyment of his hospitality. It was rare for the women of his acquaintance to permit themselves such open indulgence in the joys of the table. Smiling into his hand as she closed her eyes in a final hedonistic moment with the ice-cream, Munro suggested a brandy.

Cate groaned, clutching her middle. "I cannot remember the last time I ate so much," she sagged unaffectedly in her chair. "Your chef is both superb and evil."

"She is," the Earl smiled, waiting for Finley to hand him a case of cigars. "Would you ..?" he asked, waving at the elaborate box.

"I don't, thank you," Cate held up a hand. "Besides, I've indulged in at least two capital vices this evening," she pressed the flat of a hand to her stomach. "I have no desire to compound their attack upon my person," she added, sitting up. "I think a walk might be a better idea."

"You would like a stroll around the gardens?"

Cate looked thoughtful. "I'd really like to walk down by the cliff top," she said. "The one nearest the castle with the view out over the firth, would that be possible?"

"The Deil's Stane? _Now_?" Munro frowned. "It's a fair clip and it'll be completely dark soon."

"It didn't look all that far in the photographs," Cate stood slowly, stretching herself. "I could be there and back inside half-an-hour."

"For a recently-pardoned trespasser, you're becoming a wee bit demanding," her host narrowed his eyes and took a slow draw on his cigar.

"And I'm still perfectly happy to drive back to Inverness or sleep in my car," Cate stepped towards the door, a faint smile on her lips. She realised she might be pushing things, but somehow, she thought not: this entire situation was changing minute by minute and not turning out the way she'd anticipated at all. For some reason, the Earl seemed to find her company desirable, and she needed to keep it that way until she was able to complete her task and make a swift exit.

Munro looked at her speculatively, the cigar's twist of smoke rising from between his fingers. He nodded. "Let's away, then," he stood, motioning towards the exit. "I'll grab a coat and play tour-guide if I must."

The last of the evening's light painted the sky navy-blue as they walked through the quiet of the gardens and out through a low arch in the thick stone wall: a silver sliver of moon was just beginning to rise. Inside the high battlements, there was no breath of wind but once outside and beyond the sheltering aspect of the castle itself, the highland breeze picked up. The sward along the cliff top was smooth and dense and green; dried fringes of grass hinting at the summer's heat. The scent of salt and high-season lay all about them, as the last of the bees determinedly harried tufts of sea-pinks. What with the magnificent dinner, the lush evening breeze and the lovely sky, it was very close to idyllic and despite the reason for her presence, Cate felt her guard easing. This was a civilised place: there was no danger to her here.

She and the Earl walked in silence down through the waving banks of grass and wildflowers, the noise and scent of the sea growing stronger with every step. The breeze had increased now to a fairly substantial and gusting wind, Cate relished the sensation as it whipped through her hair and cooled her skin. She smiled in something approaching contentment.

Munro was still assessing this stranger to whom he had felt impelled to offer the hospitality of his home. It was not something he'd usually consider doing for a known acquaintance, let alone a total stranger – an intruder, even. Finley would think he'd lost his mind. And yet here they were, walking down to his favourite lookout after a wonderful and entertaining dinner, in the last moments of a spectacular summer's evening, with the brine strong in the wind and the warmth of the sun still on the grass. He'd half expected the woman to talk all the way down, but she'd stayed perfectly silent, a smile on her face as her dark hair lifted and coiled in flurries of air. She was something of an enigma and he found himself increasingly intrigued.

"Mindful, now," he warned, slowing his pace. "The Stane is nae place for hasty feet."

"You called it that before," Cate turned to look at him. "What does it mean?"

"The Devil's Stone," Munro nodded forward. "Better to see it in full daylight, but you can probably still see enough of it in this light. Over here," he beckoned, stepping over to his right and pointing down.

Walking across, Cate felt the bouncy softness of the cliff top grass beneath her feet, so yielding in places, it felt like sponge. Reaching the side of her unforeseen host, she turned and looked back in the direction of his pointed fingers. The breath left her lungs in a low gasp.

The Devil's Stone was, even in the last of the daylight and glimmering moon, a sheer drop of vast darkness. Slicing straight down from the faint edge of grass at its crest, reaching, without break or hinder, to the distant froth of white spume at the base. The cliff-face was a forbidding intrusion of spectacular black granite, an expanse of perpendicular rock, too sheer and smooth for even gulls to make for their nests. The immensity of the thing left her speechless for a few moments. It was far beyond the description of common words.

"_My God_," she stood and stared, trying to take in the dimensions of the thing.

"Aye," the Earl gazed at the massive rock face. "Though the locals consider it far from divine."

Turning to face him, about to comment on the overt exhibitionism of the Scottish coast, a particularly strong gust of wind rocked her footing and Cate felt herself beginning to overbalance on the springy ground. A strong hand gripped her arm, swinging her back and upright, as the hand slid around her shoulder to steady her movement.

"I told you to be mindful," Munro looked down, his eyes colourless now in the greying evening.

Looking up at him, her heart beating a little faster from the misstep, Cate was about to smile and make a flippant comment when her heart thumped harder and her skin prickled. There was something about this man so very similar to Mycroft that it triggered an unconscious reaction. She was glad it was dark and the swift flush of her face would be unnoticed.

Munro's voice was roughly edged as he warned her away from the edge of the cliff, his fingers still clasped around her upper arm as he pulled her back and into safety.

"Are you always without care?" he said, a certain sharpness in his tone.

"After today, you need ask?" Cate was glad she could turn away from him and head back up the slope. "Thank you."

Experiencing a surprising sensation, Munro watched her walk away from him, heading back towards the castle. The woman was a stranger, a foreigner from that most pernicious of cities; he'd known her for little more than a couple of hours, and yet he realised he was already drawn to her, his breath seizing when she'd nearly overbalanced so close to the edge of the cliff.

It was almost dark and they really should be away from this place by now – it was too easy to put a foot in the wrong place, and on this particular part of the Scottish coast, there would be no surety of a rescue if one should fall.

"Away, now," he muttered, quietly. "I'll have Finley bring some tea and you can tell me about this book you're writing,"

###

"How do you know _Mycroft Holmes_?" Trentini's expensive cigar burned unheeded in the crystal ashtray. "Who are you to know this man and offer him to me? Who _are_ you?" the Italian eyes were wide and dark as he spat the name of his despised enemy.

"Who I am is unimportant," Sherlock drew on the cheroot, squinting as a thread of smoke found his eye. "The important thing is that I really do know Mycroft Holmes and I know you'll pay me well to deliver him to you on a plate."

"How can I be sure you know this man?" Trentini linked his fingers and fixed the younger Holmes with an interrogative stare. "All you have said since you came into my house have been lies. Give me one reason why I should believe you this time."

Smiling still, Sherlock reached inside his jacket to a tiny, secret pocket in the lining. Extracting a plain white business card, he held it up for the guard to give to his boss.

Taking the fragment of white stock from the hand not holding the pistol, the Italian focused on the plain black print. There was a name. There was a phone number. His mouth compressed to a thin line.

"How do you come by this?" he asked, finally retrieving his cigar and laying the card on the arm of his chair. "I accept you must know something about him to have his name printed like this on a card, but why would you give him to me and how would you do it?"

"For the very generous reward you have offered me, and in a way that would enable you to walk into a room and do whatever you wanted to do to him," Sherlock puffed on his cigar and looked thoughtful. "Abduct him, shoot him, whatever you want, really" he grinned around the smoke, his eyes even more detached than his words. "It's of little interest to me."

"I have offered you no reward, generous or otherwise," Trentini looked doubtful.

"Indeed," Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "About that …"

"Before we discuss any form of reward for your efforts, such as they may be," Trentini sat back and looked unconvinced. "Tell me how you could bring this man Holmes to me."

"Mycroft Holmes never leaves London," Sherlock shook his head firmly. "He's paranoid about stepping beyond his domestic theatre of operations, so I will not be able to bring him here to you."

"Then what good is your claim?" the Italian demanded, scowling. "If I cannot have him in my control, you are wasting my time," he drew unhurriedly on his cigar. "I do not like wasting my time."

"I might not be able to bring him to Rome," Sherlock leaned forward, his ice-blue gaze fixed and level. "But that does not mean I am unable to deliver him into your hands," he sat back and smiled meaningfully. "If you want him, you will have to arrange for someone to collect him from London."

"_London_?" Trentini was displeased.

"I can arrange for Mycroft Holmes to be in a certain place, at a certain time, where you could have a couple of men waiting to, _ah_, greet him," Sherlock laid the stub of his cheroot in a nearby ashtray. "It will be amusing to watch him realise that all his arrogance and deviousness have come to nothing when your men take him," Sherlock's delight was almost telepathic. "A shame you will not see the moment for yourself."

A _moue_ on his lips, Trentini nodded slowly. It would be too dangerous for him to leave Rome … yet if there were even a _possibility_ of witnessing his enemy's defeat …

"You have still not demonstrated any ability to do what you suggest you can do," he twisted his mouth. "Give me reason to believe you in the next sixty-seconds, or be ready to die."

Sighing, Sherlock held out his hand. "I need my phone."

At a nod from Trentini, the guard retrieved the Blackberry from a nearby bureau and handed it across.

Tapping in a series of digits without pause or error, Sherlock held the phone to his ear. He waited. There was a single word answer.

"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes," he said, cheerfully. "I do hope I'm not calling at an inconvenient time, but I wonder if you remember a certain recent conversation about travel on the continent?"

There was a low murmur of response.

Looking deliberately at Trentini, Sherlock put the call on loudspeaker.

"I shall probably be back in town in the near future," he continued, casually. "Remembering our last conversation, I wonder if I might perhaps, provide you with some information?"

An educated drawl flew across the miles. "This line is unsecured," Mycroft observed. "Unwise to discuss possibilities when you're so obviously beyond British protection."

"What makes you think I'm not in Britain?" Sherlock allowed himself a small frown as he looked across at the Italian. Trentini raised his eyebrows,

"Spare me the act," Mycroft's voice sighed, wearily. "You know what I do, _Mr_ …"

"_Ah_, no names, please," Sherlock interrupted, his mouth smiling, though his eyes did not. "As you've remarked, this is an unsecured line."

"Very well," there was another little sigh. "I am, _of course_, interested in anything you care to discuss," Mycroft confirmed. "Though our relationship has not always been the most pacific, I understand you would not contact me without it being of genuine import," he paused. "If you are planning to visit soon, we might meet, perhaps? Somewhere discreet?"

Leaning back into the soft leather of his seat, a look of quiet triumph crossed Sherlock's face. "That would be a perfectly acceptable plan," he agreed. "May I call you when my travel arrangements are more definite?"

"Yes, but not on the current line," Mycroft objected. "Mine is less vulnerable," he added, reciting a series of digits.

"Soon, then," Sherlock ended the call, his eyes meeting Trentini's. "As you can see," he said. "Holmes knows me, knows the value of meeting with me. He's so paranoid, I can even get him to choose the place of his own downfall," he laughed without humour. "Now do you believe me?"

"How did you meet him?" Trentini asked, eventually.

"We went to the same school," Sherlock linked his fingers and assumed a sardonic expression. "We wear the same tie."

"You British and your schools disgust me," the Italian growled.

"It can be helpful," Sherlock was not in the least perturbed. "It will help me to get you Mycroft Holmes at the very least,' he added, leaning forward. "Now," he said, pleasantly. "About that reward …"

###

"And _so_," Cate laughed, accepting a refilled glass and waved it in the air. "I decided to write a story about spies."

Andrew Munro was on his third scotch. The evening's dinner, company and discussion had been more entertainment than he'd had in months. He was in a very good mood.

"Is there anyone special in London to read what you write?" he asked, unexpectedly.

Lost for a moment as the conversation veered without warning, Cate just stared at him. Her heart leaped. _Mycroft_. Instantly, her laughter vanished and her smile fixed. Unable to dissemble so quickly, she was forced to look away and avoid Munro's gaze as she felt the heat flare in her face. _Oh, Jesus. If anything was going to give her away, it would be this_…

The blush on her skin was so immediate and reactive; Munro knew it was involuntary and therefore genuine. _There was someone_. Strangely, he experienced a pang of disappointment. There was already a man in this woman's life: foolish of him to expect otherwise, but _still_.

"I take it that's a _yes_?" he sipped his drink, hiding an unanticipated dismay.

Taking a slow inhale, Cate managed to still her pulse and breathing, her skin losing its rose tint. She gave a quick nod. "There is someone, _yes_," she confirmed, smiling faintly, her thoughts back in London.

"And yet he runs the risk of you meeting someone else," he suggested, twitching his eyebrows as Cate looked across at him, puzzled. "You wear no rings," he said, allowing his gaze to rest on her unadorned fingers.

"Not every woman choses to wear a ring," she sipped her drink. "The Queen is Elizabeth, not Victoria."

"But you would," Munro stared at her, suddenly sure. "You would be happy to wear a man's ring on your hand," he paused. "If it were the right man."

Feeling the heat rise again, Cate looked down at her bared finger in silence.

"I apologise," Munro stood, abruptly. "I have absolutely no right to say these things to you. Please forgive my boorishness."

"There is no forgiveness required," Cate demurred, quietly. "Or boorishness involved," she stood too. "Although I think now might be a good time to bring the festivities to an end for the evening."

Placing his empty glass on the table, Munro looked at Cate's tranquil expression, his pulse inexplicably erratic. It was madness, but all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and hear her sigh right before he kissed her.

"A sensible notion," he agreed, indicating that she should precede him from the room. They walked in companionable silence along several corridors and passages, up at least two flights of stairs before he paused outside a heavy wooden door.

"The Jacobean Room," he smiled, gently. "Kings have slept here."

Lifting her eyes to his in the dim lighting, Cate smiled too and shook her head imperceptibly. "But not tonight."

Fighting down an urge to smooth her hair beneath his fingers, the Earl of Tain drew in a deep breath. "No," he agreed. "Not tonight."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_Making Do – Parsifal – The Third Device – The Sleeper Awakes – Unhyphenated – The Great Escape – Thank God For the Scottish Tourist Board – Spies Like Us._

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In an odd sort of way, he had been rather enjoying the enforced minimalistic state of operations, the freneticism of his recent schedule bowing almost entirely to circumstance and a renewed appreciation of simplicity. Having committed himself to this course of action, he was as much a captive in the Tower as had been the condemned prisoners of old, and _yet_, Mycroft felt the line of a smile shape his mouth. Given that even the most optimistic timeline demanded he remain ostensibly caged and incommunicado for at least another twenty-four hours, the idea of a temporarily ascetic environment was not a wholly unpleasant one. Had it not meant an undesired separation from Cate and the children, he would have accepted it without caveat.

While the Tower interrogation rooms were never intended to be the most comfortable of settings, given the critical nature of the operation, Mycroft had been quite prepared to endure the spartan conditions for the relatively short time he anticipated being here. Apparently this did not accord with the desires of his support-team and now not only the main interview room, but the entire suite was virtually unrecognisable from its former semi-institutionalised glory.

Following a request for his own toothbrush, Mycroft witnessed the appearance of a minor whirlwind in the small sleeping-quarters, which now boasted a more luxurious mattress, quality linens, a reading lamp and small plasma television. There was even a heavy Turkish rug on the floor. The tiny ensuite bathroom not only had its own door now, but also a selection of his preferred toiletries. And a new toothbrush.

The dividing wall separating the main interview room from the smaller viewing room next door had been removed and the steel table which had once dominated the centre of the larger room was now pushed far over into the left corner, barely visible beneath its growing burden of papers and printed reports. That he had been required to read them in hard-copy format was because none of his staff, not even the infallible _Anthea_, had thought to requisition a laptop hosting essential UTFP fingerprint and retinal-scanning software. Without these security protocols, he would not attempt to access, let alone download, a single line of the sensitive materials to which he was privy – for even here, in this, the safest of locations, open-access transmission was entirely too vulnerable at the point of egress. All computers could be hacked, but not one which necessitated a retinal password prior to boot up combined with rotational key encryption. Until such technology arrived, however, he would make do with the safer, though low-tech alternative.

In this case, 'making do' had necessitated reams of printed materials being brought to him over the last twenty-four hours under armed guard. Sitting in one of the wonderfully-comfortable leather armchairs, Mycroft raised his eyes to watch the two large and quite menacingly-equipped gentlemen finish removing the last of the printed matter, which, having been read, digested and actioned, was destined no doubt, for some hyper-secure method of destruction. He had heard rumours of the growing trend to involve the alimentary canal of pigs, although given the extreme turgidity of government papers this seemed an unnecessary cruelty.

Still awaiting the arrival of a secured laptop, he had then been presented with a sparkling new printer of his own, however the Fuji-Xerox device he received was the latest 3-D version, which, though a wondrous momentary diversion, was inevitably frustrating since Mycroft was rather more interested in its ability to print pages of DoD reports rather than the latest Bugatti. After fascinatedly printing out an entire set of white chess-pieces, he handed custody of the machine over to an administrative officer when the appropriately secured laptop finally arrived and removed the need for any hard-copies at all.

For lunch that day, he had requested a roast-beef sandwich, but when a young Army steward appeared with a substantial wicker hamper, Mycroft suspected it contained more than the standard picnic fare. Unpacking it to produce elements of a Michelin-star luncheon, the steward presented him with several dishes on a tray bearing the iconic Rhodes insignia. Mycroft found himself enjoying a supremely tender filet of beef with potato parsley dumplings and a half-bottle of wonderfully scented Burgundy, followed by an exquisite bread-and-butter pudding and a glass of a late-harvest Riesling. Even the coffee machine excelled itself, though by now, Mycroft was seriously contemplating a brief nap before returning to the fray.

Upon a decision to tackle the latest Intel from several reporting lines, he was by now only faintly surprised to find that a perfectly proportioned ergonomic desk and seat had been furnished for his endeavours and was waiting quietly for him in a corner furthest from the door. Sheltered from the drafts of the occasionally moving body, the desk was comfortable, well-lit and finally home to a computer that would make most IT professionals purse-lipped with envy. He looked around to see if a second desk had been provided for an assistant, since Anthea was clearly taking no further risks with her reputation for farsightedness. Thus it was already the afternoon on the second day of his durance vile when he eventually managed to access the system and begin his usual high-speed analysis of recent data.

Dealing with last night's reports first, the very first document he accessed spoke of Scotland, and his fingers paused above the keys, a sudden tension in his chest.

_Cate_.

Taking a deep breath, he scanned the few lines, inferring what he might from the meagre description.

_SST/R/sitrep 19.00hrs BST: Subject Athro. GPS satellite tracking confirms subject departed Inverness airport in hire car [2013 Evoque SY63 KTK] at 13.27hrs. driving directly to Castle Tain [__57°48′42″N 4°03′24″W]__parking in public car park at 14.55hrs. local time. One mobile telephone call from [number _restricted_] at 15.10hrs. to [number restricted]. No further movement of vehicle. No further use of telephone. No online presence. Next scheduled SST/R sitrep 07.00hrs BST._

Frowning impatiently, he tapped a key, calling up the morning's update from the same source.

_SST/R/sitrep 07.00hrs BST: Subject Athro. GPS satellite tracking confirms subject's rental vehicle remains stationary in public car park at Castle Tain [__57°48′42″N 4°03′24″W]__. __One mobile telephone call from [number restricted] at 09.14hrs. to [number restricted]. No further movement of vehicle. No further use of telephone. No online presence. Next scheduled SST/R sitrep 19.00hrs BST._

A muscle flickered in his cheek. Cate had flown up to Inverness the previous afternoon, and yet she was still in Scotland and apparently _still_ at Tain for some unknown reason. Even if she had gone there with the intent to deploy at least one of Sherlock's micro-transmitting devices, the possession of which his brother still imagined him ignorant, why was she _still_ there? Her hire-car had been in the visitor's car park since the time of the first report, almost twenty-four hours prior – what in hell's name was she doing? Had she been caught? Had Munro or his staff found her on the castle premises engaged in, _Christ_, espionage? Was she in trouble? Was she hurt? What was she doing lingering around the home of one of his most powerful enemies? Momentarily tempted to risk the entire enterprise by sending in the cavalry, Mycroft paused and relaxed slightly as he realised he already had.

Returning his focus to the computer, he entered a new search parameter: _SST/R sitrep: Parsifal/? _Almost instantly, a line of text appeared advising him a satellite surveillance transmission report was available for Subject _Parsifal_. Did he wish to open the report: Y/N?

Selecting 'Y', Mycroft sat back in his perfectly proportioned ergonomic chair and read.

###

It was the stillness and silence that brought her to a sudden waking; the strange, unnerving kind of silence, where something is wrong but you don't know what, as you lie there, quietly listening in the dark. The smell of the place was wrong, too: not unpleasant, just different. Cooler, and fragrant with the scent of lemon wood-polish and old rugs. Cate sat up in the massive four-poster bed and gazed around the moonlit room. The Earl was rightly proud of possessing these fabulous antiques and had made a point earlier in the evening of decrying the use of _reproductions_. He'd almost spat the word. Clearly His Lordship had little love for anything that might be considered unauthentic.

Checking her watch she saw it was just after two. The full moon streaming in through the tall curtained windows showed a brilliantly clear summer's night. Even from the depths of the bed she could see the bright white dots of distant stars and constellations. Everything was hushed and unmoving.

Climbing over an acreage of mattress that could easily have slept a family of six, Cate slipped into a long, dark robe that travelled with her everywhere. She walked over to the nearest windows and stared out across the deeply shadowed rooftops, gables and stone battlements that lay at the heart of Castle Tain. The air was still and on the warm side, but one of the floor-length windows opened out onto a small stone balcony where she stood, allowing her to breathe the wonderfully cooling salt night-air. Peering down over the edge of the solid stone balustrade, Cate saw that, other than moonlight, no artificial lights were showing; the place was in darkness. It gave her an idea.

She knew that before she could leave this place, there were two things she had to attempt. Cate wanted to locate the final micro-transmitter somewhere the Earl of Tain might conceivably conduct his most private conversations, and Sherlock had recommended trying to put one in the man's bedroom. Unsure how she was going to be able to achieve this, she felt it was still worth having a try. The other thing she wanted to do was get her hands on the file she'd seen on Munro's desk in his private office downstairs.

Once she'd done these things, she could simply walk out of the castle, find her car and drive away. It was so unassuming a plan, there weren't that many things that could go wrong. She should do it now, while everyone was asleep.

Debating whether to get dressed or stay in her nightgown and robe, both light, silky things, Cate decided that if she were caught fully-clothed, her planned excuse of being lost, looking for the kitchen might not be as convincing. Digging into her coat pocket, her fingers wrapped around the third and final transmitter as she opened the bedroom door, following the beam of moonlight out into the darkened corridor.

The final location she needed was the master bedroom. But where in this massive pile of stone was it? It was probably going to be up on this level, which seemed to be all bedrooms, but where? The light of the moon through the tall windows illuminated everything in broad slices of black and white and it was easy for her to run silently along the passageways looking for anything that suggested a grander room. But there was nothing: she passed by an adjoining hallway on her left and stopped, retracing her steps.

There was a solidly-panelled wooden door at the end of a short ancillary passage, flanked by the symmetry of two huge Chinese vases on fluted pedestals. Even in the shadow of the night, their perfect teardrop shapes glowed, pearl-like, in reflected moonlight. It was worth a look. If it really were the Earl's bedroom, all she had to do was open the door a couple of inches, reach inside, and secrete the tiny device tight against the wooden doorframe. It would never be noticed if she put it down by the skirting board.

Reaching for the unwieldy wrought-iron handle, Cate held her breath as it turned in case a squeak or a scrape of metal gave her away. It moved easily and silently, and she exhaled slowly as the door began to open into the room beyond.

The great space was, apart from the ubiquitous moonlight, in darkness. There were three ceiling-to-floor windows along the far wall, the heavily valanced curtains at each only partially drawn, allowing sufficient light in to illuminate the entire room. Peering around the door, Cate looked immediately towards the bed, another monster, built in the days when people did far more in their bedrooms than simply sleep and continue the family line. The darker, unmoving shadow in the centre of the bed suggested the Earl was fast asleep. All she had to do was reach her hand around the solid doorframe and press the tiny device into one of the deep crevices. Nobody would spot it.

And then she lifted her head and saw the small round table beside the chair across from the bed. There was a telephone on it and an ashtray and a box of what Cate assumed would be more of Munro's cigars – the room had a faint redolence of his aromatic tobacco. Far better than securing the transmitter to the doorframe, she should affix it to the underside of the table, clearly a place where the man regularly sat while conducting his phone conversations.

But it would mean actually entering the Earl's room.

But if he were asleep, would it matter?

But what if he woke up while she was there?

But what if the doorframe was too far away to catch his private conversations?

In her moment of indecision, the image of Mycroft in handcuffs reappeared in her thoughts and she nodded to herself.

Taking a deep breath, Cate stepped silently into Munro's bedroom, heading directly for the small occasional table. It took only seconds to press the third device up and under the rim. Looking back over her shoulder at the shadow still in the centre of the bed, she saw no movement, and padded silently towards the door.

"_Catherine_," Munro's voice broke the velvety silence. There was a rustle of bedclothes as he pulled himself out of the bed, standing uncertainly in pyjama bottoms. "_Catherine_," he repeated, straightening up and staring at her in the white of the moon. "Why are you here? Are you ill?"

As before, unable to think of an immediately acceptable lie, Cate simply stood and gazed at him in mortification, her eyes and thoughts focused entirely on the man moving towards her. Her face flushed with sudden heat as her heart thudded in dismay. _Oh bloody hell._

All he could see was her, caught motionless in the silver of the full-moon, draped in long silks, inarticulate and still, hands empty at her sides. She hadn't expected him to waken while she was here. She hadn't come to speak with him, only to look at him sleeping. The knowledge made his stomach clench as an unimagined desire scalded through his veins.

He stopped short, looking at her intently in the stark light. "Catherine?"

"I shouldn't be here, I'm sorry," she choked softly, turning back towards the door.

"You felt it too, didn't you?" Munro's question stopped her. He was very close now. Terribly close. "You felt the connection between us."

"No, there was nothing … I'm sorry I came here …" Cate could hardly breathe. She had to get out of here, before her heart pounded loud enough for him to hear.

"_Catherine_," his voice was entirely too soft and too close and she closed her eyes rather than look at him.

His hands touched her shoulders, his fingers turning her gently to face him, sliding inevitably up the side of her neck and into the mass of her hair. He stepped closer.

"You felt it too," he whispered, his hands either side of her face, tilting her mouth up to be kissed, his lips gentle and smooth against hers.

A wave of heat washed across her skin, burning down to her bones making her feel warm and heavy. All she had to do was lean in … _just a little_ … with a sensation of falling, Cate jerked herself abruptly away, confused by her body's response to this stranger. There was too much of Mycroft in him; the way he looked at her, the way he stood and spoke. Too much the same but nowhere near enough. _Mycroft_.

"No," she shook her head. "This is wrong, I shouldn't be here," her fingers lay over her mouth as she backed away. "There _is_ someone … I'm already involved …"

"I'm right here, Catherine," Munro paused. "He isn't."

"He doesn't need to be," she husked, making for the door.

"Catherine … _stay_, please."

Looking over her shoulder, Cate saw the Earl's hand reaching out towards her, palm up. It would be the easiest thing in the world to take it.

And if she did, she would lose herself.

Shaking her head, she stepped across the bedroom's threshold and closed the door quickly behind her.

Somehow managing to backtrack to her own bedroom, Cate sat on the edge of the four-poster and bit her thumb. Should she stay until the morning or leave immediately? Despite Munro's warning that highland roads were dangerous even in the summer, the brilliant moon rendered that problem moot. She could be dressed and out of this place within five minutes, the car could be on its way back to Inverness within six.

Yet there was still the file she'd seen on the Earl's desk. At the very least, she wanted to see what was in it, even if she couldn't take it with her when she left.

But there was no way she could stay here any longer, was there? After the embarrassing scene in Andrew's bedroom … she'd just called him _Andrew_, she realised … the was no chance of the situation returning to anything like normal, although quite what _normal_ might be under the current circumstances, she wasn't sure.

All Cate knew was she couldn't stay here. It was too … dangerous.

Finding her overnight bag, she stripped off her nightclothes and in moments was fully clad in jeans and a white t-shirt. Grabbing her toiletries from the ensuite bathroom and shoving them in on top of everything, she zipped up the holdall and checked around to make sure she would leave no evidence of herself behind.

Her hand was inches away from the door handle when a knock came from the other side.

"Catherine, are you decent?"

_Shit, shit shit_. Her heart thudded so hard, she felt it was trying to climb out her throat as she wondered if staying silent might be the wisest move at this point.

Refusing to cower, she pressed her lips together and grabbed the handle, wrenching the door inwards where she stood, ready to run or fight or do whatever the situation dictated.

Taking in the fact that she was fully dressed and carrying her bag, Munro stiffened as she looked at him. "You're planning to leave this minute?"

"I am," Cate nodded, abruptly. "Everything I've done since I came to this place has been wrong and completely at odds with my usual behaviour," she added. "I have acted unforgivably and irredeemably. I must go."

"But no need to leave in the middle of the night, surely," the Earl spread his hands, solicitously. "I'm sorry I behaved the way I did but you caught me unprepared and I … I just _couldn't_ _help_ … I don't usually maul every woman within arm's reach, _but_ … there's no need for you to leave at all and certainly not in the middle of the night."

"No, Andrew," Cate stopped him with a raised hand. "I appreciate your attempt to minimise my outrageous actions of this evening, but really, I have to go, and right now is probably the best time, before the situation has the chance to deteriorate further."

Frowning, and staring at her from beneath a furrowed brow, Munro sighed heavily. "Very well then," he announced, his face relaxing as he conceded the argument. "At least allow me to make you some tea before you go … you cannot refuse a Scot his hospitality."

The look on the Earl's face was almost plaintive and Cate felt that, since she was the one who had erred, accepting a cup of tea from the man was a civil compromise. Keeping hold of her bag, she followed him down the stairs and along the wide passageways into the warm tiled hall of the kitchen.

Busying himself with the kettle, the Earl watched as she sank down into a heavy wooden chair at the enormous old table. Arranging cups and saucers, he glanced across to see her press a hand over her eyes. She was clearly feeling awkward.

Pouring the tea, he sat in the chair opposite and looked rueful. "It's been a bit of a disaster from the off, hasn't it?" he smiled ruefully. "I don't usually have this effect on women."

Accepting the cup he passed her, Cate sighed and shook her head. "This has been one of the strangest days of my life," she agreed, sipping the hot liquid and realising Munro had made it too strong and bitter for her taste. Adding a few grains of sugar helped. She sipped it again, thankful as the heat flowed through her, lifting her spirits a fraction.

"In fact," the Earl sat, folding his arms as he watched her drink. "Given that I invariably get what I want, I can't ever remember a woman saying 'no' to me before," he paused, thoughtfully. "Can't say I like it much."

Cate felt the discomfort rise again. Definitely time to go. Replacing the cup in its saucer, she looked across the table. "Thank you for the tea," she said. "I'm sorry this has been a terrible encounter, but I really should go now, I think."

"And you're absolutely sure I can't get you to reconsider staying?" Munro was leaning back in his seat, a curious look on his face.

"I think staying would be an incredibly bad idea," Cate attempted a smile, although it felt stiff on her face and her lips were dry. "I'll go now," she added, standing.

Tried to stand.

That was odd.

Her legs felt strange: heavy and unwilling. Putting her hands on the table-top to push herself up, Cate noted distantly that she couldn't feel the wood against her fingers, couldn't actually feel her fingers, come to that. Even lifting her head to stare questioningly at the Earl was difficult, as it was suddenly much too heavy for her neck to support. Her mouth was very dry.

"What have you done?" she whispered, still struggling to stand.

"I'd sit down, if I were you," Munro watched her efforts with an almost clinical objectivity. "Or you may fall."

Unable to force her legs to support her any further, Cate sank back down as her entire body seemed to be turning into lead. Her mouth was a desert and her face felt numb. Her eyelids wanted to close. "_What..?_" it was all she could manage.

"A relative of methohexital," the Earl smiled cheerfully linking his fingers. "A little somnolent one of my biochemists concocted by accident," he added, still smiling. "Almost no side-effects, but a dramatically rapid onset," he said, standing and walking around the table to hover above her, his hand gently cupping the side of her face as her head lolled against the chair back. "I think you need to sleep on your decision to leave, Catherine," he murmured softly. "And remember, my dear, I always get what I want," he smiled again.

"_Bastard_," Cate's eyes were almost closed, but she was still able to scowl at him.

"Save your sweet-nothings," Munro's voice held a note of laughter. "I have a visit from the Scottish Tourist Board tomorrow morning, but when they have left, I can assure you of my full attention."

His words were the last things she remembered before opening her eyes and realising she was back in the Jacobean room, that it was dawn and that she was incredibly thirsty. Someone must have carried her all the way back upstairs and laid her in the bed.

Checking swiftly, she saw she was still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, although her shoes were across the room beneath a chair, upon which rested her unopened holdall.

Sitting up, she checked herself for any lingering after-effects of the sedative, but apart from a need for a very long drink of water, there was no headache, no residual sluggishness. In fact, she felt rather well after a solid night's sleep. Walking over to the chair with her holdall, she checked inside – everything seemed to be as she had left it the previous night; good. Finding her shoulder-bag, she dug around looking for her Galaxy … _ah_. Not so good. Munro had taken her phone. She wondered if he would be able to break the password that Mycroft had pressed her to use, but she suspected not. It had been a very complex password, all numeric, hyphenated in _three_ separate places.

"But why do you want me to use this beast at all?" Cate had frowned as her eyes worked themselves along the sequence of numbers. "You know I have no numeric aptitude, so I think imposing this demand on me is an act of malice aforethought."

His smile was indulgent and made his eyes crinkle, and Cate realised she would use the wretched thing just for that alone. He was so often very serious, that a true smile was a precious thing and to be encouraged. His fingertip drew a gentle line down the side of her face.

"I would never ask you to do anything without very good reason, you do understand that?" he asked. "My intent is not to make your life harder, but to make it safer, my love. I will not have you at risk."

"And so wanting me to use this unspeakable combination of digits is making my life safer?" she sighed theatrically. "Very well then, but there will be a price. A_ quid pro quo_."

His smile had widened. "As I assumed there would be," he pushed the hair from her face and stroked her cheek with his thumb. "And you will find me a most willing debtor," he added, brushing her lips with his own.

"But how am I supposed to memorise all these numbers?" Cate groaned. "This is _mean_, Mycroft."

"You need memorise nothing," he looked self-satisfied. "This is also for you," he said, handing her a small leather tag of the sort one might attach to a suitcase to display an address in case of misplacement. The printed numbers inside the tag was the _precise_ series of digits and hyphens he had just asked her to use.

"You want me to use this uber-secret password, but you also want me to keep said password written down in my bag?" she asked curiously. "Even I can work out that makes relatively little sense."

"My darling woman," Mycroft swung her into his arms so that he could look directly down into her amused brown eyes. "I want you to use this password, yes," he hugged her to him before releasing her slightly. "But I only want you to use the digits themselves and never the hyphens."

Cate thought. "What would happen if I accidently used the hyphens as well?"

Mycroft looked pained and momentarily wrinkled his nose. "You might be arrested," he said, preferring not to tell her that being arrested would be the least and mildest of the possible responses. "So please do not use the hyphens. Can you at least remember that?" his expression had moved into the teasing.

"I think I might just be able to manage that level of complexity," she acknowledged tartly. "But now we come to the question of your debt and my payment."

"Indeed," Mycroft was genuinely pleased now. "Did you have a specific price in mind?"

Sliding her wrists over the shoulders of his jacket and holding herself close, Cate laughed up against his shirt-collar. "Not so much a price, as an exchange," she murmured, breathing him in.

"Exchange of what?" Mycroft's fingers stroked up her back and into her hair.

"Energy into heat," she whispered now, pulling him down to her and nibbling the fine crest of his ear. She grinned against his skin as she felt him quiver in her arms.

"Tell me you'll use the password," he groaned, his eyes closing as he felt an irrepressible response to her attention. "Promise me, Catie."

Conversation became somewhat limited after that point, but Cate remembered it very clearly now as she looked for the small leather tag in her bag and realised it too had disappeared. Munro had taken her phone and what he imagined might be some kind of password. How foolish he must think her.

Cate smiled. _Good_. One of the things she'd learned from Mycroft in the time since she'd met him was that it never hurt to have people underestimate you so that, when you had to pull a rabbit out of a hat, it was even more of a surprise. Her smile deepened. She had one or two quite noteworthy rabbits for the Earl of Tain.

Slipping into her shoes, she walked to the door, testing the handle. As she had supposed, it was locked. Very well. There were alternative methods of egress.

She looked towards the windows next, especially the one opening out onto the long stone balcony where she'd stood in a deliciously cooling breeze the previous night. In the clearer light of the morning, Cate looked far more carefully at her surroundings, leaning well over the edge of the balcony to ascertain possible footholds for climbing purposes. She'd been an occasional climber in her late teens and early twenties, but that was twenty years ago. If she were going to attempt climbing out of this room, she'd at least need a rope as this balcony was thirty feet above the nearest roof and she didn't fancy falling quite that far. Walking to the far left of the stone loggia, she peered down, looking for possible avenues of escape that wouldn't actually kill her in the process of getting away. As she was dangling over the edge of the solid stone rail, she heard a car-engine approaching the building, drawing to a halt beyond her range of view.

"Help!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "_Help_!" She listened, but there was no answering call, no indication that anyone had heard her voice against the rustling breeze and the endless screams of gulls. She would have to find another way. Perhaps if she could find something to act as a rope, she might be able to make it down to the floor beneath this one – perhaps there might be an open window like the one in her bedroom, of which she might take advantage. But what to use?

Stepping back into the room, she looked at everything, not as a piece of art, but as a potential rope. Her eyes paused on the hangings around the bed itself. Without doubt, they were irreplaceable antiques that must have a direct connection back to the Earl's most ancient family history. They were also a unique and costly item in their own right, made and produced for this bed alone. Without these specific hangings, the massive bed, a glorious antique in itself, would be worth but a portion of its value. If the tapestried enclosures were in any way damaged, or God forbid, _destroyed_, Munro would have to have new ones made. _Reproductions_.

With a particularly satisfied smile on her mouth, Cate began the systematic stripping of the four-poster bed's hangings since, though old, they had been manufactured from study stuff, the tight tapestry managing to only strengthen the fabric, regardless of age. They might burn in a few seconds, but they were very strong: strong enough to hold her as she climbed.

Using a pair of small scissors from her toiletries bag, Cate managed to rip the heavy drapes into long strips, each one about two-feet wide and ten-feet long. Some still had their tasselled edging attached which gave the newly-fashioned rope a strange air of gaiety. Blessing her brief time in the scouts, she checked her knots were secure and dragged the solid mass of dangling, knotted fabric to the balcony.

Tying one end carefully around two of the squat stone balusters, Cate threw the other end over the top and watched as it uncoiled down onto the grey-slated rooftop below. There was nothing in her overnight bag, other than her favourite silk robe, that she would miss, but as she wasn't keen on dragging a bag around with her, she let it stay. She could buy a new robe when she got home. Damn, she'd get _Mycroft_ to buy her one.

Slinging her shoulder bag messenger-style across her body, she took a deep breath, she flung a leg across the broad stone rail and grabbed onto the hanging rope, tugging hard to ensure nothing was going to slip once her full weight was on the thing. Knowing that it was as secure as it was ever likely to be, she stepped into space and let the fabric take the strain. It was so dense that it didn't even stretch.

Because the windows to the Jacobean Room were not at the front of the castle, Cate was fairly sure her escape would be unobserved by any of the visiting tourists, or the household itself, which was fine by her, as she inched her way down the makeshift rope.

When she was hanging completely below the stone balcony, she saw a line of deep window directly beneath the room she had just vacated, although none of them possessed a balcony. Each of the windows, there were four of them, had a very deep sill, a stone ledge that would easily accommodate an adult. The trick now was to reach one of them that might be opened from the outside.

Crawling down the rope until she was almost level with the windows, she peered carefully into the inner gloom, but could see very little as the rising sun was behind her and reflecting brightly against the mullioned panes. It made looking inside virtually impossible. One thing she was able to see very clearly was that none of the windows were open, not even a fraction.

Oh dear. This meant she would have to inflict yet more damage upon the Earl's property. How sad.

Since it didn't matter now which window she tried first, Cate aimed herself at the one closest, which happened to be one in the middle of the group. Swinging her legs, she gradually increased the angle of the swing until the soles of her shoes touched the granite of the wall. Feeling this, she gave an almighty shove and allowed the next swing to carry her almost into the window itself, her fingers scrabbling at the rough sill until she was able to pull herself into a sitting position on the cold stone ledge.

Hanging onto the knotted tapestry, she stood slowly, making sure her footing was entirely safe before turning towards the diamond-pained windows set deeply into the wall. There was a small iron lever-handle inside the frame which needed to be lifted before the window itself might open. Unable to access the handle through the glass, the glass needed to be removed. Raising her right foot, she performed that small task quickly, though not without a little collateral damage to the rest of the window. Wondering how much it would cost Munro to have the leaded panes replaced, Cate thought vindictively about going to break a few more windows while she was at it, but managed to restrain herself.

Pulling the window outwards, she stepped through and jumped down to the carpeted floor. Some kind of guest room, but not as grand as hers had been. Making directly for the door, Cate paused, listening. She didn't want to step into the arms of any passer-by. There was complete silence as far as she could tell, and, holding her breath, her fingers closed around the iron handle, turning it carefully to avoid any further sound. It turned easily and she breathed again.

Opening the door, she looked carefully left and right. She was in one of the passageways she'd walked past at least twice to her memory, which gave her some idea of her bearings. If she walked along to her left, she'd be at the base of the staircase leading up to her erstwhile bedroom, which meant that the quickest way out was then down another flight of stairs and out along the corridor that passed by the Earl's private office.

Perhaps she might be able to kill two birds with one stone?

Moving swiftly and silently, Cate reached the junction of the passageway that led in one direction to the kitchen, and in the other, towards the one that ran by Munro's office. It was then that she heard voices approaching. Men's voices. Three of them.

One of them was Andrew Munro. The other two she didn't know.

The question now of course, was what was she going to do? She could hide; she'd done that before. She could back-track her steps and end up in some room which might or might not be safe, or she could confront the three of them. The latter course was obviously the least advised and therefore the most attractive. Holding still, Cate listened very carefully to see if she could catch any idea of the conversation.

It sounded as if they were talking about the castle itself … words like _cash flow_ and _depreciation_; security and cleaning. _Cleaning_? A vague recollection of Munro saying the Tourist Board people had been coming this morning – this had to be them. Perfect.

Stepping boldly into the corridor, Cate headed directly for the conversation coming her way. Turning left into the passageway that went directly past the Earl's office, she saw the three men stop as they saw her turn the corner. While none expected her appearance, the most surprised of the three was clearly Andrew Munro.

Managing to keep a straight face, Cate walked up to the Earl and smiled coldly.

"Thank you for a _memorable_ stay, Andrew," her voice was perfectly civil. "But I have to be going now; I'll just get my stuff, shall I? In your office, _yes?_" throwing him another insubstantial smile and without waiting for a response, she strolled into the outer office before making her way to the private inner room.

Her phone was nowhere in sight, nor was Mycroft's folder from the previous day, both annoyances, but not entirely unexpected. She sighed, tempted to start rummaging around in the desk drawers, but stopping as Munro entered the room leaving the other men in the outer office.

"I have no idea how you managed to get out of that room," he said, smiling widely. "But I find myself aroused beyond words."

Giving him a profound look of disgust, Cate stared into his eyes. "If you ever try to touch me again, I will hurt you," she announced. "Now where is my phone?"

About to ask what she might be willing to offer in return for her property, he was interruped by the younger of the two men from the Scottish Tourist Board knocking tentatively on the office door.

"Please excuse the intrusion," he spoke in a soft Scottish burr. "But I am called away to an unexpected meeting back in Inverness, though my collegue is staying to complete the review as planned," he sounded apologetic. "May I call a taxi tp pick me up from here, Your Lordship?"

"Inverness?" Cate turned. "No need to call anyone," she nodded. "I'm heading that way myself in a few minutes. Happy to give you a lift, if you like."

Turning between the Earl and her, the man smiled. "McDonnell's the name," he offered his hand. "Blain McDonnell, and I'd be delighted to take up your kind offer, thank you."

"Right then," Cate gave up on ever finding her technology, wanting only now to escape Munro and all his unpleasantness. "Let's go."

The key to the Evoque was in the back pocket of her jeans as she strolled out to the visitor's car park. Wasting no time, she beeped the vehicle open, sliding into the driver's seat and into her seatbelt in one smooth motion. She couldn't wait to be away from this place, from that man.

McDonnell was in the passenger-seat and relaxed as she pulled out of the car-park and onto the main road leading away from Castle Tain.

She had been driving in total silence for about ten minutes, tension slowly building in her chest, when she suddenly veered into a passing bay at the side of the road, pulling the car to a halt. Leaning her head on both arms braced against the steering-wheel, she wondered if she needed a cry.

"Are you alright, Professor Holmes?" the soft Scottish burr had been replaced by an unexceptional English one. "Do you require medical attention?"

Sitting upright in utter shock, Cate turned to stare at the man who was clearly not who she imagined. "Who are you?" she asked, fearful that the situation had just gone bad again. "Not Blaine McDonnell, Scottish Tourist Board Inspector?"

The man smiled, and shook his head.

"Jon Smith, and I'm an English Spy," he said. "Pleased to meet you again."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_A Proposal – Sherlock's Little Toys – Dinner at the Villa Borghese – Flight From Danger – Nimrod – Something of a Pussycat._

#

#

Trentini, apart from being an utterly reprehensible individual, completely lacking in anything approaching a code of ethics, morality or even simple human decency, was, despite the magnitude of his indescribable ego, actually quite interesting.

Sherlock corrected himself. It wasn't so much the _man_ who was interesting, as his misdeeds, which were, even by his own acknowledged unique scale of transgression, fairly impressive. Accepting yet another tiny cup of the cerebrally-stimulating _espresso_ from the still-sulking Paul, the younger Holmes sat back, listening to the Italian's ever-expanding catalogue of infamy and law-breaking with something akin to delight. The Italian was even quoting _names_ and _places_: Sherlock could barely restrain the grin threatening to take control of his expression at any moment. If only he had been able to have his phone on _record_, the _Polizia de Stato_ would have a field-day, able to clear up more cases in one day than they would have dreamed of doing in six-months.

Raising his eyebrows at Trentini's latest story, Sherlock heard all about the tragic demise of a _Dirigente sindacale,_ a union leader at one of his steel plants. The graphic description of the man's fate would have guaranteed Trentini and all his lieutenants a life sentence in any of the overcrowded gaols of his country. In hindsight, he wished he'd told Mycroft about the micro-transmitters – his brother would have realised what he and Cate and John were doing and have been all over the live feed by now. If only there was _some_ way to inform Mycroft about the devices located strategically around this house, Trentini would be in police-custody before the day ended.

"And then we come to Mycroft Holmes," the Italian magnate muttered, almost as if was reading Sherlock's mind. "Tell me what you know of this man: he tasks me."

"What I know about Mycroft Holmes?" Sherlock sat back in the plush leather and wondered what he might possibly say that would be believable. "I know him rather too well," he lifted his eyebrows and looked resentful. "He tasks me too, more often than you'd believe."

"How did you meet him?"

"Oddly enough, through my mother," Sherlock leaned back, staring up at the over-decorated ceiling. "She introduced us a number of years ago and as I seemed to bump into him on a fairly regular basis, it made sense to bring our relationship to a formal standing," he shrugged. "He regularly demands I help him out with ... this and that," he sounded vaguely dissatisfied.

"And why are you so willing to give him to me now?" Trentini's dark eyes met Sherlock's ice-blue gaze. "Why _now_, eh? What has Holmes done after all this time that you are prepared to end your business relationship at this point in time?"

Leaning forward in his seat, Sherlock's expression become cold and unforgiving. "I have had enough of his interfering with my plans," he scowled. "Everything I do, Holmes is inevitably there, always obstructing me, getting in the way, and I want a finish to it. It occurred to me that this might be a mutually beneficial arrangement for the both of us," he paused, inspecting his nails.

Trentini looked satisfied. "It is clear that you know each other quite well, the way he was so dismissive of you tells me Holmes may well be overly confident in your behaviour, this is good," the Italian nodded, thoughtfully. "We can use this to our advantage."

"Then you are considering my proposal?" Sherlock eased back in the chair. "You will help me get rid of Mycroft Holmes for good?"

Trentini said nothing, but his smile was eloquent.

"I must return to London soon, especially since Holmes has eyes everywhere and will be curious if I suddenly change my normal pattern," Sherlock steepled his fingers. "I need to know that we have a deal."

"Give me the details so I may discuss it fully with some … colleagues," the magnate selected another of his dark cheroots.

Sherlock sighed; the man was not exactly swift on the uptake. "I will return to London and set up a meeting with Holmes sometime in the next several days. Once I have a firm meeting appointment with him, I'll contact you to ensure you have two of your men, and you'd better make them two of your cleverest and most _effective_ men," Sherlock paused, thinking, "waiting for Holmes and I to arrive."

Standing, Sherlock continued improvising his dramatic plot. "Once your men have overpowered him, I can maintain the fiction of a conversation with Holmes long enough for your men to get him away before any alarm is raised," Sherlock paused, his face questioning. "I'm sure a swift sea-passage or private jet flight can be organised in this time?"

Trentini drew slowly on his cigar and blinked. His nod was fractional. "It can be arranged."

"I'll carry on with my normal business and you will have Holmes to… entertain. I'm sure you and he will have _many_ things to discuss," Sherlock sat back, a little smile dancing around his mouth.

"And now you must tell me why you picked me for this task," Trentini did not carve an industrial empire within some of the toughest European cities without knowing a thing or two about people. He realised this man in front of him indeed knew his nemesis, but still hadn't worked out why this strange intruder had selected _him_ to be the means of Holmes' downfall. "There had to be others equally victimized by Mycroft Holmes. Why me?"

"You have the three things necessary to bring this plan to fruition," Sherlock said, slowly. "You are extraordinarily wealthy, you have right contacts, and you aren't overly squeamish about using violence, Signor Trentini," he shrugged. "I can claim only one of those attributes, and since Holmes has spoken of you in terms of the utmost disparagement, it seemed only fair that you were the one to enlighten him as to the realities of the world."

"You don't have the money, but you have the contacts, eh?" Trentini paused. "In my line of work this is an important thing; leave the violence to those who enjoy it the most, _huh_?"

Keeping all expression from his face, Sherlock pitied the Italian. The man assumed that lacking the funds, it must be _contacts_ that he possessed. Such naivety was laughable.

"How soon must you return to Britain?" Trentini leaned back, relaxed now and curious. "There are several people I would like you to meet before you go," he added. "Friends of mine."

"Personal acquaintances?" Sherlock knew he had to play this very carefully. "Or business?"

"The latter initially, but also now, the former," the Italian offered a genuine smile. "If you like having the right kind of contacts, it would be helpful for you to meet my friends," he nodded. "For dinner tonight, I think," he turned to his young major-domo. "Arrange a table at _Marcella's_ for seven-thirty," he said, thinking. "Invite the family."

_Family_? If Mycroft's Ultrafile was accurate, and it inevitably would be, then Trentini wasn't referring to his two brothers and the much younger sister in Napoli. This was a different kind of _La Famiglia_ entirely.

###

"Sir, as per your instructions," Anthea was all efficiency. "We've been keeping an eye out for any unusual transmissions on several MoD frequencies. Your suggestion was well-timed: two locations began transmitting yesterday; one at approximately 16.25hrs BST from Italy, and the second at around 17.20hrs BST from the eastern highlands of Scotland. There's still no confirmation as on signal origin, but there's a large amount of data being received, although transmission is apparently _ad hoc_ and erratic. Possibly voice-activated." She frowned down at her Blackberry. "Nobody seems to know who is transmitting, or why."

Lifting his eyes from the twenty-third line of his current digital page, Mycroft waited. There was clearly more. "And the particular detail you haven't mentioned yet _is_ ..?"

"Your name has been mentioned repeatedly in the Italian transmissions, sir, and given the sequential relationship of the frequencies themselves, the analysts believe there's a connection between the two locations," she paused, looking up from her phone-screen. "Is it Cate and Sherlock?"

Leaning back in his comfortable chair, Mycroft puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled slowly, calculating.

"Almost certainly," he rubbed his nose. "Get me precise frequencies from both locations, also a transcript of whatever's been extracted." It would be in open, not code, of course. "Who else has seen this?"

"Only the night watch duty officer and one senior decoder," Anthea was already sending her little messages to the relevant recipients. "They have both been verified."

"That's something, at least," Mycroft frowned. "Do we have live audio or transcript only, at this point?"

"I can have the transcripts sent to you immediately, and will have the audio-files downloaded as soon as it's confirmed there are no unwelcome stowaways."

His frown deepening slightly, Mycroft regretted not having the full facilities of his own department at hand. It would be a matter of moments to have all of the incoming transmissions vetted and downloaded for his attention. _Ah well_, it had been his idea to be sequestered beneath the Tower: too late to cavil now.

"Soon as you can, Anthea," his words were quiet. "I'd like to know the extent of the hideous mess within which my family are undoubtedly wallowing at this point."

"There is one matter you might want to action while you are waiting, sir," Anthea lifted her eyebrows, though her eyes remained locked to her phone. "The Italian _Guardia di Finanza_ are going to be exceptionally interested in some of the Italian discussions," she said, her eyes widening as her thumbs flew over the keypad. "I recall you mentioning how helpful it would be to have Minister Alfano grateful for British assistance," her eyes finally met his and she smiled innocuously. "I think your wish might be granted. Would you like me to set up a secure line for a chat with the minister?"

"I need at least the transcripted details," Mycroft nodded. "Ten minutes?"

Biting her lip in deliberation, Anthea nodded once and left the room with an intent expression on her face.

In far less than the anticipated time, a soft chime announced the arrival of a classified file on his computer. About to open it, there was an entire chord of sound as at least twenty similar files made themselves available for his scrutiny.

His Blackberry rang: _Anthea_.

"I will have Minister Alfano available for you in eleven minutes, sir," he could hear the slight challenge in her voice. "Will that give you sufficient time?"

Having the first five files already queued for reading, Mycroft still had a moment for her amusement. "Thank you, Anthea. That will be entirely acceptable," he said, already scrolling down the second page of the first file.

Apparently the little toys Sherlock had … _liberated_, from a still-unknown source, but which Mycroft privately suspected had been Baskerville, had begun transmitting their unchained Wi-Fi melodies from the moment they had been pressed into action.

Scanning rapidly through the Rome transmissions and scowling as he reached the point where Sherlock had been unmasked a _second_ time, Mycroft moved swiftly onto file number two. His scowl moderating upon hearing his brother's voice begin convincing a certain Italian of the _real_ reason his home had been invaded, lips twitching as he heard Sherlock's offer of one Mycroft Holmes' head on a plate. There would be a reckoning at some point, he promised himself.

Then came the moment of their phone conversation, where in his first breath, Sherlock had told him others were present, 'an inconvenient time', their long-term code for 'someone else is listening'. Odd now to hear half of a conversation for which he had supplied the other half hours earlier. Of course, the _alternative_ phone number Mycroft had provided was the one linked directly to MI5 and Scotland Yard. If anyone called him on that line, their private chat would have _all_ of Grandma's big ears paying attention.

It was upon scanning the contents of audio-file number three that Mycroft's eyebrows rose. He hoped the Italian police minister had no history of sudden cardiac arrest in his family.

###

Marcella's Restaurant in the Villa Borghese was a place for the well-heeled connoisseur with a taste for discretion as well as _haut cuisine_.

Taken from an inconspicuous side-entrance of Trentini's Via Veneto mansion, Sherlock found himself sharing the back seat of a resplendently opulent Bugatti Veyron, tricked out to within an inch of its life in the finest veneers and leathers, a bottle of vintage Krug chilling in its customised vessel at their feet. So delighted was he at the thought of getting his hands around the throat of one Mycroft Holmes, the Italian insisted on a toast to their new business relationship.

"The Family will be happy to meet you," he said. There was no doubting the capitalisation of those two words. "It has been a long time since we had anyone inside Britain with the kind of contacts you most clearly have. Perhaps we share some acquaintances?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock barely sipped the extravagant wine. "But I need to be sure my confidences are secure before I could bring anyone else into our discussions," he murmured. "One cannot be too careful, these days."

"Indeed, indeed," Trentini poured himself a second flute of bubbles, a thoughtful expression arriving on his face. "I will need to be able to introduce you," he said. "That it is not your real identity is unimportant, but I cannot take you to my family and not give them some kind of name."

"I see your problem," Sherlock made a face. "If you insist on a name, then you may call me … _Anderson_," he said, his face an unreadable mask. "But you can never reveal that name to anyone with any connection to Scotland Yard," he added. "I must protect my identity at all costs."

Nodding affably, Trentini smiled inside. _Anderson and Scotland Yard?_ Interesting.

The Villa Borghese district was only a short distance from the Via Veneto as the crow flew, but evening traffic in Rome was a nightmare, the journey taking almost thirty minutes to accomplish what a boy on a bicycle might achieve in less than ten. Trentini's driver was being _very_ careful with the car, pulling into a secluded bay of the restaurant's private car park, far away from any of the other vehicles and hidden from the public view by a dense hedge of tall Cyprus trees.

Doors were opened all around and Sherlock began to understand why the Italian thought himself so grand as the ordinary people were whisked aside to permit _Il Trentini_ access to the private dining-room at the rear.

Immediately upon entering the sizable room, Sherlock's eyes picked out at least two additional though cleverly disguised exits; one immediately to the side of a large supporting pillar and the other one a mirrored-and-glassed thing at the rear of the small bar to one side of the luridly ornamented room, most probably for use in case of a raid by the _polizia_. He wondered who owned the restaurant; likely one or more of the La Famiglia members.

Like Camelot's court, there was a large round table here he saw, his eyes measured the circumference. Easily able to sit sixteen adults. That it currently sat only eight men was due more to the nature of the occupants rather than any excessive size on their part, although he observed one enormous man taking up the space of two.

"Take a seat, Signor Anderson," Trentini waved him towards the white brocaded tablecloth. "I will be with you _una momento_."

Taking his time, looking around the table at the already-sitting diners, Sherlock's brain went into overdrive.

The huge man was an obvious place to begin.

Paler skin than most of the others, northern then, not Rome-born, maybe further afield; German? Swiss, even Normandy-French a possibility. Grey eyes and dirty-blonde hair, but a steady, though curiously blank gaze. Just here as muscle, or something more? Something odd about the way the big man was looking, wide-eyed at everything. Too young to have his own faction or stake his claim to any of the Italian mob franchises, so more likely related to someone who could. Sherlock looked briefly at the others present in the room and spotted an older man in conversation with Trentini; the same expressionless eyes, same hair, though greyer. Father or uncle? The older man turned his face, revealing a profile that was identical to the younger, more massive version at the table. Father and son then. Sherlock wondered what role they played in the assembled tribe.

Next there was a well-dressed smoker with a wheezing chest that spoke of lung-disease and a foreshortened life. There was a faint bulge near the left shoulder of his exquisitely-tailored suit jacket; Sherlock assumed it was not the man's emphysema medication. Next to him, was a thin, languid man, clearly gay; the chemical burns on his fingers and hands screaming _chemist_ to anyone with the eye to see. It was intriguing to contemplate what kind of chemistry might interest this particular group of people.

His eyes scanning swiftly but surreptitiously around the table, Sherlock noted two other men who were clearly in positions of authority, each accessorising with their own bodyguard. That made four, possibly five key players if one counted the chemist, from Trentini's little _family_.

A waiter approached him. "May I serve you an aperitif, _Signor_?" he asked, indicating the bar.

Shaking his head, "Iced-water only, please" he murmured, sliding into a seat apart from those already there. He leaned his steepled hands on the table, apparently focused solely on the space between his fingers, and nothing else.

Finishing his greetings, Trentini took a vacant seat opposite the tall, thin Englishman.

"I have brought a guest into the family meeting," he announced grandly and unnecessarily. "This is Mr Anderson from London who may be able to offer a solution to one of the problems that has been plaguing us in our dealings with the United Kingdom," he added, accepting a light for the new cigar he held between his fingers.

"We have many problems facing us from that quarter," the wheezing man observed, coldly. "Which particular one did you have in mind?"

Nodding accommodatingly, Trentini lifted his hands in an expansive, encompassing wave. "The very particular problem that walks like a man and thinks like a machine," Trentini bit the end of his cheroot in irritation. "_Mycroft Holmes_," he added, softly. "Mr Anderson here has agreed to lead him into a trap for me."

Of course, the man would claim the plan as his own, Sherlock kept his face straight. Let Trentini take as much of the glory as he cared – it would reduce the blast radius at the end of this explosive tarantella and keep collateral damage as contained as possible, though Sherlock wasn't terribly concerned by anything that might adversely affect Anderson. If the Italian millionaire's clique cared to rid the world of _that_ odious individual, he would not be overly upset.

Besides, if anything went wrong, Trentini made a much more convenient scapegoat than anyone else. The younger Holmes smiled inwardly. _This could be fun_.

By now, everyone at the table was watching him with a certain air of expectancy, not the least being Trentini. Having sponsored him to a meeting with the family, he would not appreciate being made to look the fool. Sherlock nodded as if sensible of the honour to which he had been accorded.

"The most gracious Signor Trentini is not being entirely accurate," he spoke easily and without the slightest uncertainty. "This is not my plan."

Sitting opposite, the Italian's stare was suddenly sharp and warning. It would not do for anyone to call him a liar in this particular company.

In answer to the encircling stares, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and smiled. "It is the Signor's willingness to participate that makes it a plan," he said, tipping his head towards his sponsor. "I am merely able to assist him in his efforts to rid us all from the menace that Holmes presents," he added, lifting his glass in salute.

Trentini relaxed fractionally, accepting Sherlock's self-deprecation as his due. "It is true," he said modestly. "I have been thinking of a way to rid us all of this man for some time, which is why I knew you would all be pleased to meet the person who will help me achieve this goal for the benefit of us all."

"And who _are_ you, Mr Anderson?" the grey man with the expressionless eyes looked at him assessingly.

Not for the first time in his life, Sherlock looked into the face of a human who could be his death. The man's eyes weren't inexpressive, he realised, they were like a shark's; a rare form of Strabismus where the eyes barely moved at all. It was like looking into the depth of the sea and watching something big and grey coming up to get you.

"Who I am does not matter," he said for the second time that day. "However I know this man Holmes, know him well, in fact, but I want no more of his interfering," he shrugged. "However all I can offer is the bait to bring him to a trap, after that I have none of the critical support necessary to deal with him once he is in the trap, _that_," he added, bowing almost imperceptibly towards Trentini, "is where the master stroke is required."

"But what of the possible danger, the consequences?" another of the key players, a heavy-set man with dark hair greying at the temples. "Holmes is not a fool; he is unlikely to enter a trap without taking precautions."

"Holmes and I have dealt together for many years," Sherlock sipped his water. "At first it was not so onerous, but of late, he has taken far more than he has returned and more than that, he has become an active obstacle to my … _work_," he added, smiling strangely.

"And this work of yours, Signor Anderson," the chemist spoke the quietest of the all. "What is the nature of your activities? I am sure everyone here would be interested to know, and how this work connects you to Mycroft Holmes."

His strange smile widening as he stared across at the man with the burned hands, Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "I find death for people," he shrugged. "Mostly, although sometimes I can hide it if needed," he waggled his hand back and forth a couple of times. "Depends."

"You find death for people?" the chemist smiled, his eyebrows rising in good humour. "Forgive me, Mr Anderson, but that sounds like something from a child's storybook."

"When the husband who beats his wife, vanishes, I am able to find his death for her," he said. "Though the murderer may not be the suspect people assume," he paused, lifting his eyebrows. "When the Thames gives up an unknown body, I can find the reason for their last breath, though it may not condemn anyone. When the child sleeps their last, I will find their death and perhaps, make it count for something more."

"You are with the police?" the dead-eyed man's voice was sharp. "You are a policeman?"

"I am a … detective, of sorts," Sherlock touched his fingertips lightly together until he could feel the whorls and curves of his fingerprints against each other. "I believe in finding the truth, which is not always the same as finding justice," he said. "Mycroft Holmes cares nothing for the truth," he mused, looking meditative. "All he desires is signed paperwork and the least amount of trouble for himself," he added quietly. "This was not problematic for much of the time, but recently he has become … intrusive and meddlesome and demanding," Sherlock sighed, linking his fingers and looking around the assembled company. "I want him out of my life but I cannot make that happen alone."

"You admit you are with the police and yet you come to us expecting our _help_?" the wheezing suit was almost laughing. Almost.

"I came for help," Sherlock nodded and looked dismissive. "If you do not want to assist me, then I will keep looking until I find someone who will," he made to stand. "_Gentlemen_…"

"Sit down, sit, _sit_," Trentini waved both hands, palms down. "Do not be surprised that my family are cautious, Mr Anderson," he said. "We have not reached this point in time without understanding the nature of caution."

"I understand caution as well as you," Sherlock looked endlessly weary. "I have delivered myself into your hands. Go and check my _bona fides_ if you wish," he looked at Trentini. "You know enough about me now to do this," he added.

"And I will certainly have this done," Trentini nodded around the assembly. "But this evening is not for accusations and suspicion, but for conversation and good food," he said. "We are safe here."

Sherlock was less than happy about that sentiment for an entirely different reason, but had to agree. Nobody knew they were there.

Much of the rest of the evening was spent in moderately uncomfortable conversation while a significant volume of alcohol was imbibed by the individuals Sherlock had come to see as the key players in this little enclave. None of the bodyguards touched a drop and neither did he. It was late when the party prepared to break up as Trentini stood, laughing and pleased with himself.' "You have an hotel?" he asked.

"I do not sleep every night," Sherlock looked around, more casually now that several of the men were less guarded and relaxed. "I do not require an hotel."

"Then you must at least accept my hospitality for the night," Trentini was full of general _bonhomie_. "Even if you decide only to watch the television."

"Thank you, but no," Sherlock shook his head. "I must return to London before Holmes notices my absence too keenly."

"Very well," the Italian shrugged. "I will have you driven to the airport and will await our next conversation."

Nodding, Sherlock was confident. "I am sure it will be soon," he said. "Now that we have agreed the framework, there is no reason for us to linger with the … execution of it," he looked mildly approving.

Bidding an early farewell to the rest of the diners, it was only after they reached the Veyron at the far side of the secluded car park that all hell broke loose.

In addition to the full moon, several blindingly white spotlights pierced the dark night from across the half-empty space, illuminating the side of the building and the patrons inside. Stentorian shouts rang out from various locations and the sound of semi-automatic rifles being readied and levelled at the door they had exited only a few minutes before.

Marcella's was being raided.

Before the Italian had a chance to speak, Sherlock grabbed him, dragging him down behind the darker shadow of the large car, signalling the driver to do the same. Having placed the vehicle at a relative distance from the restaurant itself, it seemed the police had not noticed them. Yet.

"_Don't move_," Sherlock whispered. "If they can't see us here, we might avoid detection altogether."

"But what of the rest of them?" Trentini hissed. "They will all be taken."

"Nothing we can do about that now," Sherlock shook his head. "Clearly this is a pre-arranged operation and the police are attempting a sweep of your entire group," he added. "You will be next if you can't escape."

"And how am I going to be able to escape all that?" the Italian nodded at the assembled troops.

"We wait until their attention is fully occupied and then we walk away," the younger Holmes paused, looking. "Over there," he nodded towards a small gap in the enclosing Cyprus.

"But my _beautiful_ car …" the industrialist groaned, stroking the immaculate paintwork with tragic fingertips. He turned to his driver and instructed him to stay with the Bugatti and drive it to a place of safety as soon as he might do so unobserved. Dire consequences were implied if there should be so much as a scratch. _Cappice?_

The man nodded nervously. Cappice.

At that moment, the door to the Marcella's private dining room was opened gradually, a voice from inside telling the police not to shoot. Upraised hands, tentative in the moonlight, were followed by stiff, awkward bodies exiting as demanded. The eyes and gun-barrels of every single member of the polizia were trained on that door. Now was the time to move.

With a finger to his lips, Sherlock made the universal sign for quiet, keeping himself bent double to stay in the long shadow of the Bugatti and moving swiftly towards the gap in the hedge. Not stopping to see if Trentini and his drive had followed, he kept moving until he was through the gap and looking back towards the well-lit scene through a density of branches.

Whispering behind him, Trentini was clearly unsettled. "I dare not return home," he hissed. "When the police realise they do not have me, they will undoubtedly go to my home; I cannot return there. It is not safe."

"I think nowhere is safe for you in Rome at the moment, perhaps not even Italy," Sherlock motioned the man away from the trees. "You may have to consider leaving the country for a while until the situation is clear."

"I always carry my passport as a matter of course," Trentini's face was creased with a combination of anxiety and anger. "I have funds in several places. I am not a prisoner in my own country."

"Not _yet_, perhaps," Sherlock's eyes searched for more police as they walked swiftly down the moonlit city streets hectic with traffic and pedestrians. "But the seaports and airports may already be under surveillance. If you plan to leave, you should go immediately."

Pulling his phone from an inner suit pocket, Trentini pressed a couple of keys, waiting with the device at his ear. _Nothing. _Making a sound of annoyance, he selected another two keys and tried again. Again he was frustrated.

"It seems as though the police have had a productive evening," he muttered savagely, shoving the phone back into his pocket. "I may indeed have to go, and now," he agreed. "I would give a very large sum of money to discover who is behind this sudden offensive against the family," he growled.

Sherlock remained silent, but his thoughts were far from inactive.

_Had to be Mycroft, of course_. The flimsy possibility of coincidence departed as soon as Trentini's phone calls went unconnected – not even the Italian police were _that_ organised. If the operation were as large as the unanswered calls hinted it might be, there was a massive element of control involved; control _and_ co-ordination. The only person he could imagine beginning to tackle such a project was his brother. But how had Mycroft learned the information; how had he known where they were going to be this evening? Light dawned. The micro-transmitters! Mycroft must have had prior knowledge of the devices and had already been searching for any transmission on their frequencies. It would mean that he'd also be on the lookout for the same signals resulting from John and Cate's efforts in Scotland. Sherlock allowed a momentary smile to curl the corners of his mouth.

_In which case …_ his brother was going to be all over this situation, was probably tracking their movements even at this moment.

"Then not only do you have to leave Italy, and tonight," Sherlock spoke convincingly. "But you need to go somewhere the authorities would never expect you to go," he took a deep breath. "Come with me," he said. "I can get you past British immigration and customs," he added. "I'll find you a safe place to stay in London until this situation calms down and you can decide what you want to do. You say you have money and your passport?"

Nodding hurriedly, Trentini looked bleak. "I have not ventured into Britain for many years," he said. "It is not safe."

"I don't see any alternatives at this point. Stay here and you risk almost certain capture," Sherlock looked around, over his shoulder. "It's entirely up to you, but those police were at the restaurant with a clear mandate to arrest everyone."

Inhaling heavily, Trentini nodded sombrely. "I have a jet at Ciampino Airport," he pulled out his phone a second time. "I'll phone my pilot to meet us there."

Sherlock nodded. Ciampino was about eight miles from their current location, away to the south-east. Now that they had no chauffeur or car, they needed a taxi and fast. Using his long arms and legs to their best advantage, he stepped off the kerb and flagged down an unoccupied white cab.

"_Portarci a__Ciampino__il più velocemente__possibile_," Sherlock's Italian was more energetic than elegant, but it did the trick and as he and Trentini slid into the back seat, the car took off as a fox before hounds.

Since they were travelling against the main flow of Rome traffic at this time of night, the roads to the airport were relatively free and they made good time. Twenty-minutes after flagging it down, Sherlock stepped out at the main pilot's administrative offices.

"Leave this to me," Trentini walked forward, hands already raised and welcoming.

Following a brief but reasonably forceful discussion and the transference of a wad of high-denomination Euro notes, the industrialist turned back with a satisfied smile.

"They require only the sight of our passports and we will be allowed to board my jet immediately," he said, calmly now that the plan was more settled. He held out his hand. "Your passport, Mr Anderson?"

_Ah_. This might be tricky. Naturally, his passport was quite clearly _not_ in the name of Anderson.

"Forgive me, Signor, but I have learned the hard way never to be parted from this document," he smiled as if expecting understanding. "If anything happened to this, I would be even more at a disadvantage here than you."

Nodding and giving a particularly Roman shrug, Trentini displayed his own red-covered booklet, waiting for Sherlock, who handed over his own gold-crested document in a way that ensured nobody but he and the clerk could see inside.

Once both of their photos had been verified, the man behind the counter stamped them both, handing each back to its respective owner.

"My plane is waiting for us outside hangar three," he indicated with a slight wave. "We should go. The pilot has already filed a flight-plan for London's City airport. We should be there in under four hours."

Nodding again, Sherlock smiled.

Four hours should give his brother plenty of time.

###

Mycroft's interrogation suite beneath the Tower of London had completed its metamorphosis from utilitarian holding facility to fully-fledged luxury workspace. It was warm, well-lit and comfortable with a degree of privilege absent from many dedicated, above-ground, headquarters. There was as yet, no art on the walls, but this was only the second day of his incarceration, and Anthea still had a certain look in her eye.

After concluding his discussion with the Italian Police Minister, practically having to put the phone down on the man's effusive appreciation, Mycroft was subdued. Taking one of the soft leather chairs, he waited. Time for the next stage of the operation.

Contemplating the current placement of his living chess-pieces, the powerful choreography of his thoughts and calculations was interrupted by a woman's voice.

"_Jesus Christ_," Laura Croft's muted exclamation was quite sufficient to distract him as she stood, waiting at the doorway. Her face a confused mix of expressions, she waited until Mycroft lifted his eyes to hers.

"Please come in, Ms Croft," he smiled lightly. "Please sit."

"Mr Holmes," the woman's gaze was everywhere. "I heard yesterday that you'd been arrested and were under interrogation, but it seems I've been misinformed."

"Not at all," his smile levelling. "As you can plainly see, I am being interrogated quite without respite and in the most unpleasant of conditions."

_Ah_. Croft took care not to smile.

"Of course you are, sir," she nodded, taking the armchair opposite. "How are you holding up under the strain?"

"My ability to resist has been severely compromised," Mycroft looked peaceful. "I may be forced to confess something at any moment," he added, his smile fading. "I want you to undertake a small errand for me."

"Errand, Mr Holmes?" Laura looked around the room. It was unlike any interrogation setting she'd ever been in. "Don't you have people for those?"

"Indeed I do," Mycroft's smile brightened suddenly. "But this requires a certain amount of … _discretion_. It involves my brother." Staring down at his linked fingers, the elder Holmes sought the most apposite summary.

"My brother is fleeing the Italian police and is, as we speak, _enroute_ to London in a private jet," he said, a hesitant, almost apologetic expression in his eyes. "I want you to be waiting for him and to bring both he and his travelling companion here, to me,' he added, watching her face.

"Who is this travelling companion?" Laura was intrigued.

"A wealthy Italian by the name of Emiliano Trentini," Mycroft's eyes remained fixed on her expression. "Head of a small but powerful Mafia family in Rome. An unpleasant man."

"And you want me to meet them and do what?" Croft crossed her legs and waited.

"Keep them quiet, keep them safe and bring them here,' he said. "_Discreetly_."

"Why me?" Laura was curious. "I don't even work for you," she added. "I'm here because I was told to come here and follow instructions."

"Just so," he tilted his head, the faint smile reappearing. "I've told you what I want."

"Then I'd better get to it." the woman stood abruptly and tugged her jacket straight. "Any last details?"

"The plane's call-sign is Bravo-Eight-Yankee-Papa," he smiled. "Good luck."

With a brief nod, Laura Croft stepped across to the exit and departed.

Three seconds later Mycroft was still watching the door. "_Nimrod_," he said.

###

"A spy?" Cate blinked and stared at the man beside her as he peeled off the faint line of moustache on his upper lip, and the greying-blonde wig to reveal a much shorter mousey-blonde cut beneath.

"We met yesterday morning, if you recall, Professor," he winced as a strand of glue refused to relinquish his lip. "You have an impressive left-hook."

_Yesterday? Left-hook? _Calming her thoughts, Cate rewound her actions of early yesterday. Before she came to Scotland. Before she got to the airport. Before she left home. Before … _oh_. "That was you with my husband?"

Nodding, and with a slight smile, Smith raised his eyebrows. "Quite some show you put on for everyone."

"Did Mycroft tell you?" she asked, wonderingly.

"Only later," Jon ruffled his hair after being under the hot wig. "You really had everyone convinced," he said. "You, and that brother of his."

"It was what he wanted me to do, you realise?" Cate took a deep breath. "What happened after we left?"

Smith laughed, dragging a hand over his eyes. "Your husband was in the process of taking over the entire operation when he gave me my instructions to come up here and stop you before you got into serious difficulties," he grinned. "And he _definitely_ wants you back in one piece."

"I did what I came up here to do," Cate felt herself relaxing. "Though in the process I also saw a file with Mycroft's name on it, but didn't have enough time to find it again this morning," her face went still. "Andrew Munro is not a nice man."

Scanning her with a swift eye, Smith looked for any physical damage: Holmes would likely be after blood, possibly his, if she were hurt in any significant way.

"You sure there's nothing wrong?" he asked. "He didn't hurt you?"

"Apart from drugging me, imprisoning me and hinting at possible sexual assault, no, not really," she said, her expression suddenly dark. "But I'm glad he didn't actually try anything," she added, softly.

"Your husband would be very… _upset_ if anyone harmed you, I know that much," Jon soothed as Cate turned her head to look at him.

"I'm not worried about what Mycroft would do," she blinked slowly. "But what _I _would have done," she paused, thoughtfully. "It might have made things a little tricky."

Jon sat back and inhaled slowly. The entire family were strange. Wives and brothers didn't do this kind of thing. Not really. Not usually.

"What file?" he asked. "You said there was a file."

"I saw it yesterday on Munro's desk but I had no chance to dig around this morning," Cate scowled. "And the bastard stole my phone after he drugged me unconscious," she growled. "I'm in half a mind to go back there and get it."

"You're not going anywhere near the Earl of Tain again," Smith made sure his voice was firm; that his message was unambiguous.

Cate smiled, her eyes brightening slightly, becoming expectant. Mycroft would have known that look at a thousand paces. "Is that what you think?" her expression grew cheery.

Sensing that all was not, perhaps as he might want it to be, Smith backpedalled. "I have to get you back to London," he clarified. "I don't think either of us have a lot of say in the matter."

"You work for my husband?"

Jon was on shaky ground here. "I'm not actually sure," he said. "I thought I was working for MI5, but then your husband gets me sent off on this excursion – no idea why I was picked for the job – but I really should get you back there, I think."

"He can be a bit intimidating when he's in the mood for it, can't he?" Cate smiled fondly. "But he's something of a pussycat, really."

Smith's eyes widened of their own accord. The notion of Mycroft Holmes as any feline other than the menacing pitch-black type with four-inch claws, razor-teeth and a voracious appetite for small squeaking things, was impossible. "Of course he is," his smile was tight.

"There's a lot of stuff on my phone I don't want to lose," Cate chewed her lower lip. "I think I might have to go back and at least try to find it," she lifted her eyebrows and offered Smith another grin. "I even know how to get into the side entrance."

Jon groaned silently. He wasn't going to win this argument.

"Will you at least promise to stay in the car?" he asked.

Cate's grin got bigger.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_A Place of Safety – A Return to Danger – The Chessboard – A Babysitter – A Chilling Revelation – Revenge is Anticipated – J'adoube._

#

#

Trentini's private jet touched down on the single central runway in London's Docklands just after dawn. Even though it was early, there was already an impressive volume of air-traffic at and around the small aerodrome, and they had to wait their turn before they could taxi into a reserved parking bay.

"Before we get to customs, I have to make two phone calls to ensure that we are neither stopped nor questioned," Sherlock announced. "Whatever you think might be happening, you need to do exactly as I say and stay with me at all times," he added. "Don't wander off as I cannot predict what may happen if we are separated."

"I understand, I understand," Trentini had napped during the flight and was still heavy-eyed. "Once we are out of the airport, where are we going?"

"That depends on the information I get from my conversations," Sherlock's eyes scanned the immediate area as they stepped down the short ladder and onto the tarmac. "If all is well, I'm going to see if I can get you into a safe-house, where you can stay until things quieten down."

"And if all is not well?" Trentini raised his eyebrows, tapping his pocket meaningfully. "I am prepared."

"Tell me you didn't bring a pistol?" Sherlock breathed sharply. "Do you have any idea of the penalty for carrying an unlicensed weapon in this country?"

"Then let us hope I have no need to use it, eh?" the Italian laughed softly. "I suggest you make your calls. I am tired and want to rest."

Blinking slowly, Sherlock pulled out his Blackberry.

His first call, naturally, was to Mycroft. "_Developments_?" he asked. "Progress?"

"I take it no-one can eavesdrop our conversation?" Mycroft wanted to be sure.

"Not yet," Sherlock deliberately did not look at Trentini, "but that may change. "I need a safe house."

"Do you, by God?" Mycroft's voice sounded satisfied. "Then this is your lucky day, brother," he added. "I shall have someone there momentarily to deliver you, at least temporarily, to exactly such a place."

"Where?"

"Just outside of Purfleet; a house on the edge of the Rainham Marshlands, noted home of the Great White Egret," Mycroft sounded as if her were checking his Hunter. "Your contact should be there in approximately four minutes. Her name is Croft …" there was a distinct hiatus at the end of the sentence.

"And what?" Sherlock knew this kind of pause from Mycroft meant something was not quite right. "_Problem_?"

"Unclear at the moment, so I'm keeping a few extra eyes and ears about the place."

Nodding in understanding, Sherlock realised immediately that his brother had actioned multiple-levels of surveillance. The watchers were themselves being watched. Clearly, this had to do with the overall situation leading to his seclusion beneath the Tower.

"Excellent," Sherlock's voice rose until he was sure Trentini could hear. "I will await our guide and contact you again when we are safely arrived."

His second call was to John's phone.

"_Hello_," John's voice was as clear as a bell.

"This is a remarkably clear line from Scotland," Sherlock observed. "Has everything gone to plan?"

"Scotland? Never made it there, Sherlock," his flatmate's soft words were slightly curt. "Mrs Hudson had a bit of an accident in her flat and I felt she needed someone there, and what with you gone as well …"

"So what happened with Munro?" the younger Holmes half-expected the answer.

"Cate refused to wait for me and went off up there by herself," John said, sounding vexed. "She flew up to Inverness yesterday morning after the two of you came back from seeing Mycroft in the Tower."

"Has she been heard from since she left?" Sherlock was relatively sure his sister-in-law wouldn't have gotten herself slain, abducted or generally interfered with, but this _was_ Cate they were discussing. She was infuriatingly prone to finding the nearest danger.

"Not a peep," John sounded fractionally worried. "I've rung and left several messages, but she's not called me back yet. I was going to try and call Mycroft again – his phone's been off too."

"No need to call my brother," Sherlock shook his head. The way Mycroft was at the heart of this situation, he likely knew more than all of them put together, and he'd certainly have eyes, or at least _ears_ in Scotland. Additionally, if the transmitters he'd pressed into action in Rome were already functioning, there was every reason to hope that Cate might have been able to plant at least one of them in Castle Tain. Given that his brother hadn't mentioned Cate, nor sounded concerned in any real way during their conversation, Sherlock was confident that, whatever situation she was in, it wasn't immediately critical.

A silver BMW pulled to a careful halt several feet away.

"Got to go, looks like Mycroft has sent a ride for my guest and I."

"Guest?" John was curious.

"A certain Italian," Sherlock smiled thinly. "Talk later."

Sliding his Blackberry into his jacket, Sherlock turned to assess the woman who had just stepped out of the car to head his way.

"Ms Croft?" Sherlock offered his hand. "Your arrival is timely."

"Thank you, _Mr _..?" Croft raised her eyebrows in anticipation. She knew full well who this man was, but it never hurt to get the lay of the land.

"_Anderson_," Sherlock nodded, turning back towards the Italian who was beginning to look suspicious. "My guest requires some British hospitality. Somewhere quiet, where he might commune with nature, perhaps?"

There was a small smile on Croft's face as she turned to examine the well-dressed Italian man. "May I see your passport, sir," she asked politely.

As Trentini looked at him for confirmation, Sherlock nodded, handing over his own gold-crested booklet for Croft to see.

"Thank you, Mr Anderson and Signor Trentini," she nodded. "I am here to take you to a safe place where you can relax until the situation may be resolved to the satisfaction of all," she said, indicating the BMW.

Nodding, Sherlock climbed into the front passenger seat. _Purfleet_, Good God.

###

"But I want to phone my children first," Cate held out her hand. "May I borrow yours, please?"

Turning the Blackberry on, Smith handed it over. "If you promise to stay in the car you can even keep it," he said. "Phone whoever you want."

"I can phone Mycroft?"

Nodding, Jon waved towards the device. "Help yourself."

Cate thought. If she rang Mycroft now, the first thing he'd want to know was what she was doing. Naturally, she'd end up telling him the truth, upon which news he'd go quiet and start being terribly nice to her, at which point, she'd fold like the pathetic wimp she was and never see her phone again. Or the file with his name on it.

Probably best not to phone him until _after_ they'd left the castle, in that case.

"Perhaps a later," she said, swiftly dialling the townhouse.

Mrs Compton answered, pleased to hear from her "Are you coming back soon, Miss Cate?" she asked. "The children have been wondering where you and Mr Mycroft have gone."

"Put me on to them, please, Nora," Cate felt her throat go tight at the idea the twins might be feeling abandoned.

"_Mumma_?" Blythe's babyish tones were uncertain as Nora placed the phone against her ear. "Mumma? Bly _want_."

Cate knew at that moment that she was a dreadful parent; that she should never have gone to Scotland … the children would clearly degenerate into unsupervised delinquency and end up despising her, probably opting to leave home as soon as they could get away and never want to talk to her again. She would end up alone and unwanted in a ghastly old-people's home with paint peeling down the walls, and where all the terrible parents went to die.

"Hello, _darling_," her throat tight, she struggled with the words. "Are you being good for Nanny Nora?"

"Mumma! Nawwa an' Jules an' _dukkies_!"

Cate breathed hard with relief. So there was still a duck-thing happening. Thank God for small mercies. By the time Blythe worked out she wasn't home, she'd be home. Cate felt her guilt-ridden pangs begin to calm.

"Mummy mummy!" Jules' voice was suddenly much louder in her ear. "_Mallard_, mummy! Mallard _dukky_!"

Feeling the skin on her face begin to prickle, Cate inhaled slowly. Precocious wasn't really an appropriate word any more. Not yet a year old and beginning to use specific nouns in an almost complete sentence. At this rate, Julius would be conversing at a mature level well before his next birthday. Which meant Blythe wouldn't be far behind since she never allowed her brother to do anything she couldn't.

"Did Nora take you to see the ducks again, lovely boy?"

"_Mallard_ ducky, mummy."

"Yes, my love, the Mallard ducks." Cate closed her eyes for a second. She could even hear a trace of Mycroft in the child's tone. Swallowing hard, Cate struggled with an overwhelming wave of tenderness for her children. She had thought it was impossible for them to take up any more space in her heart, but she had been wrong.

"Mummy will be home very soon, Jules."

Confirming with Nora that her plan was to be back in London before nightfall, Cate ended the call and turned back to Smith.

"I want to see my children as soon as possible," she said. "Therefore, we need to get back into the Earl's office, find my phone, steal Mycroft's file and return to Inverness within the hour, how does that sound?"

Folding his arms, Jon nodded affably. "Sounds great," he said. "What if the Earl of Tain or any of his employees don't like that plan? It might be a little inconvenient to have to battle past the entire crew."

"Which is why I'm going to create a distraction for you while you go in and do whatever it is that spies do."

"What kind of distraction?" Smith felt his eyes narrowing of their own accord as he looked at her. If anything might keep her away from the castle itself, he wanted to hear it. He was forming the distinct suspicion that Holmes had not married this woman for her quietly conventional, stay-at-home, personality.

"I think a fire-alarm might be helpful, don't you?" she asked brightly. "A small fire in a dustbin with wet newspaper; lots of smoke, a couple of dozen screaming tourists?"

"Only an alarm?"

"I've had some experience with this," Cate looked helpful, remembering Bilbao. "You'd be amazed what a fire-alarm can do for people."

"And will you promise me that once you've got the alarm going, you'll come directly back to the car and stay in it?"

Wrinkling her nose, unwilling to be so constricted, Cate made a face at him.

"Unless you promise," Jon kept his face expressionless. "We head for Inverness immediately, even if I have to call the local police to make it happen."

"Oh, bloody hell, _alright_," he was being entirely too awkward about this. "Can we go back now?"

Leaning back in his well-padded seat, Smith nodded regally. "Whenever you're ready."

Throwing the car into reverse, Cate backed up and out of the layby, swinging around and back along the road towards Castle Tain. The Earl would not anticipate her return; he wouldn't be on the lookout for a second intrusion.

It all seemed perfectly reasonable.

Driving back towards the castle, Cate kept her eyes skinned for any sign of Munro: the last thing she wanted was to accidently bump into him before her tame spy had an opportunity to go look for the file and her phone.

"You said there was a way to get to the side door?" Jon was also keeping a wary eye as they re-entered the visitor's car park.

"It's around the back of those red sheds," Cate leaned to point through the rear window of the car. "Go to the right and then go right again as you head towards the main building. The side door's right there and you can see the office once inside," she paused. "My phone is a silver Galaxy with a tiny spot of red paint on the bottom right corner," she said. "The plastic file I saw with Mycroft's name was light grey in colour, about A4 size, though it wasn't overly thick," she paused again. "Do I wish you good luck?"

"I'll wait for five minutes or until the alarm goes off," Jon was working the practicalities out in his head. "As soon as you get the alarm going, come right back here without any deviation whatsoever and you stay in here, with all the doors locked for no more than ten minutes."

"What happens after ten minutes?" Cate was curious.

"If I'm not back at the car within ten minutes, you are to drive directly and immediately to Inverness airport and get on the first available flight to London, do you understand? The absolute _first_ seat you can get?"

Nodding, Cate understood. If Smith hadn't returned within ten minutes, then it meant he wasn't going to return at all, at least not to her in the car park.

"Okay," she took a swift breath. "Shall we do this?"

"Let's."

Both of them slid through their respective doors, each heading in a different direction: Smith towards the red sheds at the rear of the car park, and Cate towards the visitor's entrance. Producing the ticket she'd bought last night, she waved it at the ticket-collector in an apologetic hurry, making a face as if to suggest she'd missed her group tour. She was waved right through.

Retracing her steps of last evening, Cate found herself once again in the public rooms. There was nobody in this particular room at the moment and she quickly found one of the slim metal waste bins she'd seen the previous night, dragging one under a discreet, wall-mounted smoke-detector. Grabbing a pile of the paper brochures that adorned every table, she screwed them up, quickly filling the bin. Seizing the nearest vase of flowers, she threw the flowers into the bin, adding a few more crumpled papers on top. Now all she had to do was light the paper and everything should start to happen.

It was only then she realised she had neither matches nor lighter.

Muttering some silent but colourful profanities, she searched quickly for a working fireplace, but none of those in the public rooms looked as if they'd been used for years. It was the bright flash of blue that caught the corner of her eye, as she saw a bowl of tourist matchbooks; gifts for those that had already paid for the tour. Grabbing one with a brief but profound thank you to the God of Fortuitous Discoveries, Cate pulled out two matches with shaking fingers and struck them against the coarse strip.

She pressed too hard and both matches buckled in her fingers. Cursing her stupidity, she pulled out another two matches and, taking a deep breath, struck again, slower and more gently. With an acrid flare of phosphorus, the cardboard matches took light and she waited a moment before placing them carefully beneath the crumpled paper. Within seconds, a yellow spear of fire shot up, the burning paper already smoking. The flames caught the moist flowers and dampened paper beneath them and in another few seconds, clouds of bitter smoke began rising through the room. Splashing a few drops more of the vase's water onto the flames brought forth an even greater density of smoke and she held her breath, wafting the clouds towards the mechanism on the wall.

Castle Tain's fire alarm was clear, strident and _deafening_.

Holding hands to both her ears, Cate scuttled out of the room and through the main exit, following the small flow of people who were doing exactly the same thing. Already, some of the castle's daytime staff were acting as Fire-wardens, guiding everyone away from the building and into the car park which was, coincidentally, precisely where Cate wanted to go. She made directly for the Evoque and clambered inside, clicking the seat-belt into place and waited.

A very tense six minutes later and she saw Smith in the rear-view mirror as he walked swiftly but not _too_ swiftly towards the car. The door opened and closed, Cate touching the accelerator at the exact moment his seat-belt locked into place.

Pulling carefully out of the car park, she headed for the open road and home.

###

His pieces were all in play, and Mycroft, apart from flying through the usual accretion of his work, was almost entirely focused on the drama at hand. It was very nearly the endgame and his touch had to be sure: one accidental slip and the work of months could be ruined.

Sherlock was back in London and had brought Trentini with him. This was an unintended result of the play, but not unwelcome for all that. If nothing else, it meant that one more of his most vocal opponents would either be turned or put somewhere the man would no longer pose an obstacle to his continued efforts. Croft had met them both at the airport and was escorting his brother and their unanticipated guest to a quiet safe house until he needed them.

Cate should now be accompanied by Smith and, with luck, would already be heading back from Scotland. Just as with the Italian transmissions, there had been a significant amount of data from the devices that his wife had managed to place within Andrew Munro's home and it was still coming in. Mycroft had already worked his way through the earlier transcripted and audio versions of the transmitted data from Tain. He paused and looked pensive. It was not only he that had some explaining to do.

In the meantime, there were a few last-minute arrangements to be made. He lifted his Blackberry and called Lestrade.

###

It took less than thirty minutes for the BMW to cruise its way past Dagenham on the A13 to the outer reaches of Purfleet. Sherlock sighed, already bored to the edge of tears. The only thing that made this place even mildly interesting was the idea that Bram Stoker felt it a suitable location for Dracula to have an estate. He looked out the window on this early summer's morning, the sun already warm for the time of day. Not exactly vampire-friendly, he mused. Now there would be a challenge: tracking a vampire. He would have to investigate any documented methods. Not that vampires existed, of course, but there would always be the gullible and those who searched for life beyond the human.

Allowing his mind to float between ideas as the car proceeded deeper and deeper into the impenetrably dreariness of rural Essex, Sherlock wondered what Stoker would make of the place now: still historical but with the added layer of twentieth-century industrialisation to grind it even further into the mire of social obscurity. It was hard to imagine any Gothic novelist worth their salt would cast such a backwater as home to one of the greatest literary monsters of all time.

"Ever been to the Villa Diodati?" he asked Trentini, abstractedly.

"Diodati?" the Italian looked confused. "No, why?" he asked. "I don't even know where that is."

"Lake Geneva, Switzerland," Sherlock rested his chin in his hand as he stared out over the river's great mudflats, running away to his right. He sighed. "Mary Shelley wrote there."

"Shelley? What has she to do with us?"

"Nothing whatsoever," Sherlock sighed again. He could feel the tedium of being trapped in this car with this man already beginning to bite. Why Mycroft wanted him to accompany Trentini to the safe house was not so much a mystery as a punishment. Sherlock suspected he was here as a babysitter. But of whom?

###

"Did you get it?" Cate kept her eyes to the road, though it was scarcely populated at this time of the morning. "Did you find it?"

Sliding a hand inside his jacket, Smith produced a slim grey plastic folder. "Got the file," he wiggled it. "Your phone was nowhere to be seen, so either Munro has it on him, or it's locked away somewhere. Managed to find this, however," he added. "It was in a desk drawer; not even hidden, really."

"What's in it?" Cate kept her eyes on the road. "I never had the chance to open it."

Holding the folder in one hand and flicking through the contents with the other, Smith scanned over several printed documents.

"Looks like he's had someone watching your husband, Professor," he said, turning over several more papers. "There seem to be reports of at least two detective agencies here, although the information they've managed to put together is limited, to say the least," he frowned. There were also a number of photographs, mostly taken at a distance and not terribly detailed. The clearest one was of Mycroft Holmes himself, in conversation with an unknown but well-dressed man outside some large imperial-age building in London, an unfurled umbrella in his hand. There was another picture of him getting into his Jaguar on a busy town street.

There was also a shot of Mycroft walking down a broad pavement with a woman beside him. A dark-haired woman, obviously very pregnant at the time the image had been recorded. The wind had just caught her hair and blown it half across her face at the moment of the photograph was taken, so her features were mostly obscured, but it was clearly Cate, to anyone who knew her.

Had Munro recognised her? Smith thought probably not or she would have seen it in his behaviour. Lucky for her, in that case.

The remaining few document in the file were a little more sinister in that one seemed to offer a schedule of Holmes' activities, including the time he left home in the morning, the various route his car took into Whitehall and his various appearances at any public meeting during the day.

The other item was chilling. It was a photocopy of the twins' birth certificates.

Not only did Munro know the Holmes' domestic address, but that there were young children in the relationship.

"What?" Cate flicker her eyes away from the clear road to his face for a second. "You look like you've bitten a lemon," her smile faded. "What's in there?"

"Some photographs of your husband; you're in one of them, though not clearly seen," Smith stalled. Should he tell her about the birth certificates?

"There's something else though, isn't there?" she asked carefully, still focused on the empty road ahead. There was nothing coming either way and with a gentle swerve, she pulled into the side of the road again. The engine pulsed quietly as she put the handbrake on.

"What is it you don't want to tell me?"

Jon didn't know why he would be surprised: nobody could live with Mycroft Holmes and not pick up a few things. He handed her the final piece of paper, watching as her brain absorbed what her eyes were telling her.

Cate went very still, almost to the point of ceasing to breathe. Then she inhaled, long and slow, her eyes staring out of the front window but blind to the external view.

"If my children are in danger, Munro will be stopped," she said softly.

"It may be nothing, just the detectives delivering whatever they could fine: he must have been paying them well to come up with this much."

"I don't care about the other stuff," Cate shook her head. "But if there is so much as a _hint_ that Munro is going for the children, Mycroft will end him," she added. "Utterly."

"He knows your address," Jon's voice was gentle. "You need security."

"I know his address, too," she turned to face him now, a curious smile on her face.

"You're not going back there again," Smith felt another chill as he took in the stillness of her face. "I'll phone your husband right now and get a security detail arranged," Jon suited his actions to his words.

The call connected instantly.

"Munro has photos of you and your wife and he knows about your children," he said tersely. "You need security, sir."

There was the faintest sound of a reply, at which Smith nodded, his shoulders relaxing an inch or two, a curve shaping his mouth. "Of course, Mr Holmes; I should have realised. Your wife is here, would you like a word?"

Lifting his eyebrows, his smile faint but definite, Jon handed the phone over.

"_Darling_?" Cate felt her voice was hoarse. "Are the children safe?"

"My love, the children have never been in any danger whatsoever, whether you are with them or not," he said, compellingly. Comfortingly. "I would not leave two of the three most precious things in my life unprotected, nor do I want you ever to fret about them. Are you coming home?"

"Mr Smith and I are heading for Inverness as we speak," she said. "We'll get the first available seats and with luck, should be at Heathrow early this afternoon. Can you have someone meet us?"

"Let me know your flight number when you've got your boarding passes and I'll have everything taken care of, my love. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Cate sighed. "It's been a bit of an adventure, but I'll tell you all about it when I see you at home," she said. "You _are_ going to be coming home?"

"With luck, I should be with you and the children very soon," she could hear the smile in his voice; clearly he meant what he said. Cate felt an unrealised anxiety leave her.

"There are a few things you are going to have to clarify for me, darling," she felt able to be demanding now that things appeared to be achieving a measure of control.

"A discussion that will undoubtedly flow in both directions, my love," he was still smiling though Cate swore she could hear an edge to his voice.

"Mr Smith and I will be at the airport in about thirty minutes. Is there any chance you can arrange seats for us?"

The smile was back in his voice as Mycroft advised her it had already been done. As soon as she presented herself at the British Airways desk, two of their best seats would suddenly become available, getting both she and Smith would be back in London sometime in the early afternoon.

"What do you want me to do when I get back to London?" Cate wasn't sure whether to go home to the children, or …

Mycroft's response was definitive. "You will come here," he said. "I'll have the car bring you here, to me. It's important, Catie."

When his voice held that specific tone, she knew he was serious and since she had no real clue what was going on, except it was dangerous and involved a man with copies of her children's birth certificates, she had no argument. Clearly Mycroft had something orchestrated, and so she would do as asked.

He wanted her to come to the Tower. He wanted her with him. She would go.

###

Andrew Munro, twenty-third Laird of Tain, Earl and Peer of the realm, sat in his office and stared hard at the top of his desk, his expression a mixture of savage anger and sophisticated humour. The woman he'd caught trespassing on his property, _in his home_, had vanished, as had certain things that ought not to have been touched.

The King's bed in the Jacobean room was despoiled, a fact which he would make her regret, tempting though it was now to simply burn the entire bed. It was ruined anyway. The damage she'd caused during her _escape_ was eclipsed only by the damage she'd attempted to cause when she returned to his home less than an hour after she'd left and started the fire.

He knew it was the woman who'd stayed in his home last night; _Catherine_. He knew it was her because the internal security cameras in the public rooms had captured her every movement since she returned, although it hadn't been she who had broken into his office; but as there were no cameras in the private areas, that was still a mystery. There must have been an accomplice. He had not yet discovered anything missing, and she wouldn't have been able to find her phone as he had it in his pocket even now.

He'd watched the recorded video of her as she'd stacked the steel bin with paper and dampened it with the vase of water and the flowers. He'd seen the care she'd taken to set the alarm off. The only thing remotely assuaging was that she hadn't deliberately tried to cause any further damage, not _real_ damage.

"Show me the video from the car park camera," he glowered at Finley who hastened to comply, speeding through the video until they could see Cate getting into a silver-grey vehicle and simply sitting there. The external images disappeared when the Castle's electronics closed everything down as per protocol during a fire alarm, so no accomplice had been seen with her. The only other casualty seemed to be the phone-system which had ceased to function – they could ring out, but nothing was coming in. An engineer had been summonsed.

No matter. There was an Inverness car-rental sticker in the rear window of the Range Rover and Munro smiled. He knew that particular franchise rather well: it belonged to his estate.

Now he had her.

Lifting his phone, he called the manager of the franchise, asking for several details about the customer who'd recently hired one of their Range Rovers. Who was she, what was her address, how had she paid for the rental?

The information was interesting but hardly exhaustive, although a couple of items gave him pause. Catherine Adin, a teacher, _yes_, but at a _university_, not a school and not really a teacher in that case. An Academic. _So she'd not been entirely forthcoming_. The Earl of Tain lifted his eyebrows in thought. The address she'd given had been university one, not a private home address … that was interesting in itself. Why would anyone give their work rather than their home address? However, she'd paid by a personal VISA, and it was amazing how many fascinating details might be extracted from one of those. He assumed that, after having retuned the rental car, Catherine Adin would be on the next flight back to London. All he needed, therefore, was to discover with which particular airline she had booked a ticket and then have one of his London contacts follow her from the airport in the City when she arrived.

That she was trying to evade him now was a pointless exercise: he would have her traced, tracked and cornered. And when she was, when the delicious _Catherine_ was all alone, he would come to her in the quiet and the dark and all would be as he desired. That he might additionally extract a little reparation for the damage she'd caused in his home was a secondary but no less important a matter. He would enjoy both aspects of their meeting.

He set his man onto chasing the requisite information, and in the meantime, prepared himself for his trip.

"Tell Robert I am going to London sooner than planned," he said, leaning back in his seat and clasping his fingers together. "I'd like to fly down this afternoon: ask him to arrange it."

"Of course, Your Lordship," Finley was glad the Laird was going to vent his wrath far away from home and hearth: it was never pleasant when he was on one of his … crusades. If the woman who'd stayed for dinner the previous night had sparked-off the Earl's desire for retribution, then she'd better be very good at hiding her tracks. By the sound of things, she wasn't. Finley wished her luck: she was going to need it.

###

It was later in the day than she'd expected by the time their British Airways flight 1389 touched down at Heathrow airport. Escorted by one of his nameless supernumeraries, they were taken, as promised, to where Mycroft's black Jaguar waited for them, parked in one of the very private areas where visiting VIPs went to avoid the tabloid press.

Wearier than she realised, Cate piled into the back seat and sagged exhaustedly against the pale leather. She closed her eyes and heaved a massive sigh.

"Really tired," she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face and yawning. She had been on edge since the evening Mycroft had been taken into custody, which would have been, what … only two nights previously, but nearly all of the intervening hours had been spent either awake or travelling. Ironically, the only time she'd had any opportunity to really rest was after Munro had drugged her tea. But now the excessive hours without respite, the anxiety about Mycroft, the worry about the children, were beginning to show, and Cate could feel her depleted energy fading even further in the warm comfort of the car.

"It'll take us nearly an hour to get there," Smith saw her eyelids drooping. "Why don't you have a nap and I'll give you a shake before we arrive?"

It was a tempting idea, and Cate was so sleepy, she almost accepted. But she knew if she did, she'd be in an even worse state at the other end. No; she would wait until she could sleep safely with Mycroft beside her.

"If I sleep now," she managed a faint smile. "I'll not be able to wake up, and there's too much that still needs to be sorted out, I think," she added, yawning mightily. "Plenty of time to sleep later."

"If you say so," Jon smiled as he turned his head to gaze through the window. If the Professor was still awake in five minute's time, he'd be amazed.

In less time than even that, he felt a slight pressure against his right side. Turning back, his smile grew wider as he saw her, fast asleep, leaning against his shoulder. God knows what she'd been through by herself, but a brief nap wouldn't hurt. Turning so that she was resting against his chest rather than his shoulder, he lifted an arm around her and held her against him so at least she wouldn't fall off the seat. There was a soft snore.

He smiled.

In less time than he'd predicted, the Jaguar swept majestically through one of the Tower gates, come to a gentle halt inside the battlements themselves.

"Time to wake up, sleeping beauty," Jon shook his passenger who by now, was almost curled up against him.

"Not yet," Cate mumbled. "Another minute."

"Don't you want to see your husband?"

Heaving her face away from his chest, he laughed openly at the expression on her face: crumpled from sleep, partly disgusted at actually going to sleep and partly disgusted at having to wake up.

"Come on, then," Cate dragged herself through her door and into the cooling air of a late London afternoon. Sucking in a massive breath, she blinked hard several times and straightened up. "Fine now," she nodded, still blinking. "Take me to your leader."

She was so different from the utterly controlled Holmes that Smith wondered how these two had ever managed to get together. One of life's little mysteries.

Guiding her carefully around corners and through discreet doors, they came at last to a plain stone wall with the steel façade of a lift embedded in the concrete. Cate fancied she'd been here before.

Travelling down, the smell of the place: cool and vaguely garage-like, helped her wake even more and as they walked down the corridor, Cate's skin prickled with recognition. She even recognised the door up ahead and quickened her stride.

The door stood open, light streaming out into the passageway. Stepping inside, her eyes were drawn instantly to Mycroft who was sitting, relaxed and peaceful in one of a pair of comfortable-looking leather armchairs. He was sipping tea.

"_Mycroft_," Cate stopped short, her voice cracking as she saw him free of restraint and safe. She had an almost overwhelming urge to weep.

"My _darling_," he was standing and had her in his arms, his fingers pressing her into his chest as he took a very deep breath. One less problem for him to worry about. "Are you alright? Are you hurt in any way?"

"I'm fine, but what about the children and Nora?"

"The family are safe and well," Mycroft spoke reassuringly as he tucked the sweep of her hair behind her ear. "They have never been in any danger at any time, and my people have the entire area under the highest level of observation for over two weeks now," he added, nodding.

"_Two weeks?_" Cate frowned. "Then something's been going on for a lot more than the last few days and you chose _not_ to tell me?"

"My darling wife," Mycroft smiled down at her slightly cross expression. "You are a shockingly dreadful liar. The moment you'd known something was up, your entire behaviour would have changed and as I couldn't risk the operation, I made a choice."

Leaning against the warm solidity of his body, Cate was too tired to think about it now that she knew the children and Nora were safe. Her tiredness came back in a rush.

"Then that's all right then," she muttered, sagging a little in his arms. It was warm and quiet down her and she was with him again and there was nothing to worry about for a while. She yawned.

"Why don't you lie down and sleep for a while?" Mycroft knew her well enough to see the deep fatigue just below the surface. "I promise to wake you if anything happens."

"Is something going to happen?" Cate yawned again, allowing herself to be guided by his arm around her shoulders into the adjacent sleeping-quarters.

"Oh yes," Mycroft nodded as he pulled a cover over her as she curled onto the bed. "I think something will happen fairly soon."

"Good," she mumbled. "'Bout time. Whatever it is." She was asleep even as he stood back to check her appearance. Windswept, dishevelled, clearly exhausted. Mycroft felt his heart thud in his chest. All his family were safe now.

Returning to the main room. He indicated Smith into the opposite seat as he resumed his own, answering his Blackberry as it rang.

"Excellent," he voice was mild. "Treat him carefully but ensure our expectations are _quite_ clear," he said. "Is the package being delivered?" He nodded again, checking his Hunter, a fleeting smile on his lips. "We may need to adjust our timing a little," his eyebrows twitched upwards. "But I do not foresee any major departure from schedule. Keep everyone informed and in place."

Ending the call, he looked apologetically at Smith as he pressed several keys. "Ms Croft?" his tone was impersonal. "I want you to bring your two guests to me. Yes, to my _exact_ location. Right away, please." Mycroft returned the phone to his inner pocket.

"Progress?" Smith linked his fingers and looked interested.

"Indeed," Mycroft was thoughtful. "It's almost dusk," he said. "I will need to go outside soon," he said. "Time for me to play my part as sacrificial goat."

"You intend to go through with this … whatever _this_ is, and put yourself in danger just to finish the operation?" Jon was almost angry, although he wasn't sure why. "By the sound of it, you already have all the important things battened down, so surely there can be no real need for you to put yourself literally in the firing line?'

Mycroft's expression didn't change.

"You know she'll be impossible to deal with if you were actually hurt?" he asked wryly. "And your wife is not someone I would want angry at me."

"Cate would understand what I'm doing and why I have to do it," Mycroft looked down at his hands for a moment, allowing the shadow of a smile to cross his face. "The risk to myself is negligible."

It was only as his eyes swung back to Smith's face, he saw the younger man was not looking at him anymore, but in fact, was gazing over his left shoulder.

"What risk?" Cate was right behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_Back to Base – Diverted to Stansted – Sleep Quickly – A Particular Cliff – We Wait – Only Forty Minutes – Leaving Purfleet – Lestrade – The Guests Arrive – A Suitable Place for Traitors – Going Home – Chapter One – The English Spy._

#

#

Sherlock seemed asleep, stretched out along an old sofa, when Croft walked into the lounge.

"Time to go. Where's the Italian?" she asked, sliding her phone back into her pocket.

"Through there," with his eyes still closed, Sherlock waved a hand over the back of the settee towards another of the ground-floor rooms in this dreary dwelling. Safe house it might be, but only because nobody in their right minds ever wanted to live here. A chilly old prefab left over from God-knows-when, with nothing to recommend it other than its remoteness from people and its closeness to nature. The sound of the birds from the nearby marshes had been driving him slowly mad and he had just arrived at the point where he could block everything out when Croft had spoken.

Upon their arrival at the house, Trentini had been most vocal in his disappointment, making very sure that everyone in the car knew of it.

"You cannot expect me to rest in _this_ … this _godforsaken_ hole in the ground?" he demanded. "I am used to better accommodations than this for my dogs," he snarled.

"Signor Trentini," Croft appeased his filthy temper. "This is merely a precaution to ensure that when we relocate to a better place, your privacy and safety are secured. Nobody wants you to keep moving around, so it is best we do all this now rather than fear for your future wellbeing."

Marginally pacified, the Italian gangster followed the woman into the drab house and into the kitchen where he demanded coffee.

Looking less than enchanted, Croft smiled thinly. "There is the kettle and there is the coffee and dried milk," she nodded at the various accoutrements. "I don't expect there to be anything fresh in this house but you're welcome to hunt for it."

Sherlock had walked once around the perimeter of the place, peering through each window and door, before taking up residence on the sofa, folding his arms across his chest and mimicking sleep.

But now, apparently, they were to go.

"Where?"

"We are summoned," Croft spoke quietly so that her voice would not carry. "Back to base."

"Base being ..?"

Croft just looked at him.

"_Ah_, of course," Sherlock nodded. "_That_ base."

"About time we left this dismal place," Trentini was still scowling as he stomped towards the BMW. "I wish to be taken somewhere with a hot bath and a good meal," he said. "I do not intend to stay if I am denied the basic amenities of civilisation," he turned to Sherlock. "What do you say to that, _eh_, Anderson?"

Sherlock sighed. "I say you'd be better off with less concern over your current standard of living and more thought over the fact you are still alive to contemplate having one," he said flatly. "Remember where you would be right now had I not been able to arrange this, so do be quiet, there's a good chap."

With a sour expression on his face, Trentini got into the car, slamming the door after him. Sherlock was mildly impressed, determined to use the very _continental_ manner of the man's bad humour in the future when it was most likely to annoy Mycroft.

In a matter of seconds, the unlikely trio were back on the road, retracing their path towards the heart of the British capital.

It would take them less than an hour.

###

Andrew Munro's jet, its flight-plan set for the City Airport in the Docklands, was inexplicably rerouted to Stansted Airport, several miles outside of London. Not a huge detour in the great scheme of things, but an annoyance.

The Earl of Tain did not suffer annoyances gladly, the foul simmer of his mood rising to a slow boil of frustration. It would be an extra hour at least, given London's horrendous peak traffic, before he would be able to enter the Mews House he kept for the odd few days each year he came to London for official duties and engagements connected to his peerage. And now he would be later still, as his driver had arranged to meet them at the Docklands aerodrome. As if a mind reader, his pilot relayed better news.

"Already been in touch with Carmichaels, Your Lordship," his voice came through the internal comms system. "Apparently he's aware of our diversion and is enroute to the new pickup, so with luck, you won't be all that much later than planned, sir."

"Did Carmichaels say he'd done that small task I asked of him?" Munro settled himself deeper into the encompassing seat.

"He asked me to advise you that the hunt had been successful, Your Lordship," the pilot wasn't about to even sound curious. "And that he had the map-references you wanted."

_Excellent_. Munro smiled. Finally, pleasing information. His driver had managed to follow the lovely _Catherine_ from Heathrow, tracking her back to her den. There was no rush now; he could take his time. He liked to take his time.

The question now was, did he go direct to his house from Stansted, or did he assuage his impatience and go to meet his erstwhile guest straight away? He smiled to himself. Catherine Adin certainly wouldn't be expecting him to be at her home so soon after her own arrival; she probably had no inkling at all that she had even been named, let alone tracked down. The thought of her getting home, probably taking a hot shower, coming to the door when he knocked, her hair still damp, her body soft and clean for him …

Enjoying the dull pressure that blossomed in his groin, Munro took a slow inhale. It was decided. His house could wait; he would go directly to meet the woman who had evaded him twice. She would not do so a third time.

He would be in London in less than an hour.

###

"_And_?" Cate walked around to face him. "What risk?"

"You are supposed to be asleep," Mycroft frowned; she was still groggy and looked like one strong gust of wind would send her reeling.

"I was," she rubbed her eyes, smiling her gratitude as Smith vacated his seat for her. "But then I had to go to the bathroom and heard you talking about sacrificial goats," she paused, yawning. "If you're going to play hunt-the-tiger, I think the least you can do is allow me to be there."

"There is no need for you to make yourself vulnerable again," Mycroft crossed his legs and looked forbearing. "And there is absolutely _no_ chance I would permit you to place yourself in any further danger on my account," he added. "Not a _chance_," he repeated, his eyes seeing a certain expression arrive on her face.

"Then tell me which big cat you're hunting," she stretched her face in an attempt to wake up. She looked innocently interested.

"There may be more than one," Mycroft settled down in his seat, and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. "I am not at liberty to say at this precise time."

Cate knew her husband's code well enough to realise he was hedging. He either didn't know, which was unlikely, or he didn't want to say anything in front of her … or in front of _Smith_. Casting her glace sideways, she caught a glimpse of the younger man's face; he seemed as puzzled as she was.

"Then I hope you still have those handcuffs," she said, matter-of-factly. "Because that's the only way you're going to get me to stay down here if you really are bent on setting yourself up for bait," she frowned. "I realise this must be a good idea for you to even consider doing it, but I worry, you know," she added, thoughtfully.

"No need to fret, my sweet," Mycroft stood and walked to his desk. "I am going to be perfectly safe, just as you are," he turned, smiling, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his fingers.

"You wouldn't dare," Cate stared at the shiny bracelets.

"Are you willing to risk that I might?" Mycroft sounded perfectly serious.

"I would be very unhappy if you tried," Cate sat back and looked appropriately sad.

"I would rather an unhappy wife than an injured one."

"You'd much prefer one that was both happy and uninjured, I expect," she smiled, cheerily.

"I would be prepared to settle for one above the other."

"It would be awfully upsetting if you felt you couldn't trust me."

"I trust you. I do not trust your reactions. They are … unpredictable."

"I'll just be outside then," Smith waved his thumb in the direction of the doorway, deciding that the better part of valour was to let these two duke it out without witnesses. Jon hated to think what might happen to witnesses.

"My husband is not going to handcuff me," Cate smiled at Mycroft's English spy. "He's just trying to get his message across, which he has," she said, turning back to look at him. "I promise to stay safe."

"_Darling_," Mycroft leaned forward and squeezed her hand. "I knew you'd see sense."

"Do _you_ promise to wake me up if I go and doze for a while?" Cate yawned again. "I mean, _really_ promise?"

"I really promise, my love," Mycroft smiled, helping her up to her feet and drawing her back into the tiny bedroom. Out of Smith's sight, he pulled her close and kissed her dreamily. "Sleep quickly, it won't be long now."

In actuality, it would be less than an hour.

###

Greg Lestrade had spoken with the senior Holmes. Their conversation was clear but at the same time, ambiguous.

"So, just exactly what is it you want me to do, Mycroft?" the silver-haired DI frowned at his end of the phone. "You know this isn't the kind of thing I generally get involved in."

"As we discussed earlier, Inspector, I am in need of insurance, and in times of uncertainty I will take it from whatever source I most trust."

Mildly flattered, then annoyed at himself for being so obvious, Lestrade frowned. "So, yeah, I can be there and do what it is you want me to do, but then what?" he decided to play things cautiously.

"An important collar for your Division? My indebtedness? Professional success and the admiration of your peers?"

"_Stop_," the DI shook his head on the phone. "You had me at you being in my debt," he said. "Okay. I'm agreeing to help, now just tell me exactly what particular cliff it is you want me to jump off."

Mycroft did so.

"_Jesus_; you don't mess around, do you?" the DI breathed softly. "I'd better get a move on, in that case."

"How long will this take you to arrange?" Mycroft consulted his watch.

"Not long, I shouldn't think," Lestrade checked his wrist. "Definitely within the hour."

"And you are quite clear on the task at hand?"

"How will I know who to look for?"

Mycroft pursed his mouth. "You will know, Inspector, trust me."

"Looks like I'll be doing that too, then," the policeman sighed. "See you there."

###

The broad light of day was already fading when Mycroft shook her carefully, and she stirred reluctantly.

"_'Nother_ _minute_," Cate groaned into the pillow. It smelled of husband and she had been having such a lovely dream involving him, the Egyptian pyramids and, for some unknown reason, a river; swift-flowing, broad and powerful. Trying to blink herself more awake, residual images of the dream flickered behind her eyes. If certain dream-interpreters were correct, she'd just been having a wonderful time; alternatively a river might just _be_ a river.

His mouth was close to her ear as he murmured she could go back to sleep; that he wouldn't be long; she was tired; she should sleep. _Sleep_. She could feel the warmth of him, he was that close. And then his words made sense and she opened her eyes properly.

"_'mM awake_," Cate mumbled as she pushed herself up. There was no way she was going to miss this. Whatever it was Mycroft wasn't telling her about.

"I'm awake," she repeated, rubbing her face roughly and taking a few deep breaths. "Although I need a hot shower and a cup of tea to feel human again," she added, her hand searching for his to pull herself upright.

"Do not have me regret this, Catie," his words were for her ears only. "I will be acutely upset if you do anything adventurous."

"Mycroft, I'll even stay out of sight if I must," she grumbled. "But I think I've earned the right to see the end of this thing … whatever it is."

"And I recognise the fact that if I do _not_ allow this, I will suffer endlessly because of it," his smile was negligible, but it was there.

"You know me so well, my love," Cate's smile was bigger. She squeezed his fingers.

"Then you may accompany me to the courtyard, but I want you to stay with Mr Smith until the … _proceedings_ are over," he paused, looking at her. "Will you agree to that?"

"I agree, of course, as long as you promise not to be hurt in any way."

"I will do my level best," the smile was in greater evidence.

"Then I will behave according to your draconian demands," she leaned against him.

"_Draconian_?" his eyebrows lifted.

Cate warmed to his expression. How she had existed before she'd met this man, she wasn't sure any more.

"I love you," she whispered.

His answer was another smile as they walked towards the lift in the wall. Smith was directly behind them, a faint curve to his mouth as he wondered how these two managed to co-exist without implosion.

The lift opened, letting its passengers walk into the first glimpse of a London dusk. The sky beyond the immediate walls was a darkening blue-grey; the heat of another summer's day sending up faint shimmers from the grey, cobbled stone walkways. It was almost too peaceful.

Exiting into a ground-floor passageway in the White Tower itself, Mycroft led the others out into the last rays of the sun, heading across the courtyard towards Wakefield Tower, home of the Crown jewels. There was a large expanse of uncovered cobblestone outside the stronghold, normally packed with tourists during the day, all queuing to enter the holiest of holies. It was quiet now; everyone had gone home. Except them.

Mycroft paused his stride, looking around, up into the skyline of the surrounding battlements, nodding as if satisfied. "I shall wait here," he said. "You two stay around the corner of the Guard's Building," he directed them off towards his right. "You will have a clear view of events but be in the clear if anything is amiss."

Cate rested her hand against his chest. "Promise me that nothing will be amiss," she said softly. "Promise me, Mycroft."

"I promise this will all be over very soon now, my darling; be patient just a fraction longer." Nodding at Smith, who touched her elbow to steer her away, Mycroft stood in the fading light, hands clasped lightly behind his back.

"What if something goes wrong?" Cate allowed herself to be shepherded by the younger man around the corner of the old stone building into relative safety. "What if he hasn't thought of everything?"

"Don't worry, Professor," Smith reached inside his jacket, pulling out a compact pistol, its flat black solidity providing a curious sense of security. It was the first time Cate had ever associated a weapon with that feeling. The spy cocked the gun, the sharp scrape of steel upon steel making the situation far too real for comfort now and her heart beat faster.

"What now?" she whispered.

"We wait," Smith took a shallow breath, resting his gun by his knee. "Won't be long."

###

Stepping down from his personal jet outside the private hangers at Stansted, Munro stretched his legs, breathing the cooling evening air. Though it was nothing like the bracing freshness he'd left behind, it was not altogether unpleasant. He looked around, waiting.

Less than a minute later, an expensive-looking Mercedes rolled to a halt only feet away. A grey-uniformed man stepped around to nod politely at the Earl.

"Your Lordship," the man didn't quite salute, but it was as if he had. "Where would you like me to take you, sir?"

"Carmichael," Munro returned the nod. "I have a mind to pay a visit," he rubbed his chin, "to a certain lady."

"Yessir," the chauffeur lifted his eyebrows but made no comment.

"You have her address?"

"I can take you to where she is, sir," the man blinked. "It will be about forty minutes from here."

_Forty minutes_. In less than an hour, he could be with the woman who'd invaded his home and his thoughts, who had held his mind in the grip of a tantalising fantasy for the last twenty-four hours. He wasn't used to waiting for things, but in this case, the additional deferment had supplied an extra little edge to his appetite. He smiled. Forty minutes was nothing. The Earl of Tain folded himself into the back of his car, the smile still large across his face as it pulled out into London's early evening traffic.

###

Piloting her way around the mudflats and heading back towards town, Croft experienced a mixture of thoughts and questions. Why had Holmes have her watch over his own brother and the Italian? Clearly the visitor was not aligned with the angels – one look and even a blind man could see he was trouble. But how was Holmes' brother involved in all this? That she had been the one chosen to keep them out of the way was not incidental, she felt. But why _her_? Perhaps Holmes thought a woman was less likely to antagonise them? And why exactly had they been kept out of the way for much of the day? Away from what?

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Croft drove steadily back into the City. She had been told to bring them to the Tower. But this made no sense at all; why there? Why not just take them straight to MI5 itself or Scotland Yard? While there was nothing specific she could put her finger on, Laura felt uneasy. Something was wrong.

Driving through Poplar, past All Saints Church on the A13, Croft checked her watch. At this rate, and given that they were travelling against the flow of the traffic, she estimated they'd be at their destination within ten minutes.

###

Lestrade ticked off the list in his head, everything that Holmes had requested. Mentioning Mycroft's name had worked like a charm – whatever he'd asked for had been given the fast nod. He would remember this for a future emergency.

It was nearly time. He picked up his phone and called for a car.

###

Despite the warmth of the evening and the sun's slow slide from the sky, Cate felt a shiver prickle her spine. It was strange, just watching and waiting; seeing Mycroft simply standing there as shadows grew around him.

Abruptly, she wanted him to walk away from it now: whatever it was, she decided he'd done quite enough and she wanted him to turn and smile and tell her he'd changed his mind and that the Jaguar was coming to take them both home to the children and dinner. She wanted this, suddenly needing it very much. But he kept standing there, his own shadow stretching out with all the others, and the need became an ache in her chest to call out to him to stop this before it was all too late.

There was a sound of a car engine and she saw Mycroft lift his head to look; her stomach sinking as she realised it was too late now to stop anything.

The engine died quietly and there was the clunking of doors and the scuff of approaching footsteps. At least two people, maybe more.

Searching the rooftops and battlements of the Tower's inner stronghold, Smith kept his eyes peeled for any sight or sound of trouble, but the place, other than the newly-arrived car and its passengers, was in silence.

Laura Croft was the first to step into view, shading her eyes from the last of the slanting rays as they dazzled before fading to dark.

Parking in the usual place, she was about to escort the two men towards the lift to take them down to the interrogation rooms when she saw Mycroft Holmes waiting all alone in the courtyard beyond. She stopped, uncertain now. What was going on? Immediately her eyes flicked along the parapets and turrets above them.

"Mr Holmes?" she asked, slowly. "Is there something I'm missing?"

"_Holmes_?" Trentini's voice cracked from baritone to high tenor as he realised he'd been drawn into a trap. Launching into voluble Italian profanity, he swung around, reaching into his pocket for his pistol only to freeze as he heard the unmistakable sound of a Heckler and Koch G36 semi-automatic police rifle being cocked. And then he heard three more.

"Don't move a muscle, matey-boy," Lestrade strode out from the darker shadow of the Lanthorn Tower entrance. "I am arresting you on suspicion of illegal entry into the United Kingdom," he said. "I'm fairly sure we'll be adding a few charges to that one before the day's out," he added, turning to face a theatrically alarmed Sherlock. "And that goes for you too, _Anderson_, you _bastard_," he spat. "You disgust me,' he added, snarling. "And you a copper, too. Take them away," he waved at his men, each armed and looking as deadly as their weapons. "Separate cars."

Trentini and Sherlock, the latter's expression now of utter ennui, were manhandled rather enthusiastically out of sight as one of London's finest gave them the standard caution. "You do not have to say anything _but_ ..."

Waiting until they'd gone, Greg turned to Mycroft and laughed quietly. "Got the big fish that time, eh? We'll give it a few minutes until the Italian can see your brother being hauled off just as he is and that should allay any immediate suspicion he's been duped. Once he works it all out, he'll have been tucked away somewhere nice and quiet."

"My sincere thanks, Inspector," Mycroft was smiling and nodding. "You have fulfilled my expectations of the Metropolitan Police, I am in your debt."

Lestrade grinned and raised his brows. "You have no idea," his words were quiet but good-humoured as he turned towards the car park.

"Is that it?" Laura Croft was still standing in the shadows, a look of surprise still across her face. "You wanted me to keep Trentini and your brother quiet all day so you could rig up this ambush?"

"Partly, Ms Croft," Mycroft turned to meet her gaze. "But there are one or two other reasons why I wanted your company, you see, I am expecting another guest."

"_Guest_?" her voice held an edge. "Who's coming now?" she asked, meeting a pair of unblinking eyes, their vivid blue shadowed now by dusk and … something else.

"An individual I've been wanting to meet privately for some time, and I need you to confirm the answer to one or two questions."

"But who is this other person and what is it you expect me to confirm?" Croft sounded completely at a loss.

Still hidden around the corner of the Guards Building, Cate turned to stare at Smith, her frown asking questions of its own.

He shook his head, raising a finger to his lips. _Wait_. His eyes returned to the scene in the centre of the courtyard.

There was the sound of a second car pulling to a halt just beyond the nearest gateway, followed by the sound of a voice raised in irritation.

"What do you mean, she's in here?" Andrew Munro's voice was as clear as a bell as he strode through the gate between Lanthorn and Salt battlements. "You told me you'd followed her home, you stupid man," the Scottish accent roughened with anger proceeded the Earl himself as he stepped into the square where he finally noticed two other people standing in the dimming daylight; a man and a woman, the woman not yet in full view.

"_You!_" his voice roughened still further as Munro caught sight of Mycroft standing still and tranquil. "What the _bloody hell_ are you doing here, Holmes?"

There was a sharp inhale from Croft.

"I am minded to ask you the same question," Mycroft's elegant drawl held several centuries of authority. "Why are _you_ here, particularly here in _this_ place and at _this_ time?"

"_Damn you_," the Earl's anger was growing exponentially. "There is no compulsion for me to listen to your inane yammering," he turned on his heel and began stalking back to the gateway, stopping short as Sherlock appeared from the shadow of the gateway, Trentini's illegal pistol held firmly in his right hand.

"Oh, but there _is_," he said, a faint smile about his lips. He cocked the gun and held it steady. Munro's eyes flicked between the newcomer's expression and the unwavering weapon in his hand.

"Who are you?" he asked, finally.

"Not important," Sherlock's smile grew a little wider. "Turn around," he added, waggling the pistol.

Turning back to face Mycroft, Munro was able to see the woman's face clearly for the first time. His eyes widened fractionally.

"Thank you, Your Lordship," the elder Holmes smiled coldly. "That answers one of my questions. That you clearly know one another clarifies a number of other points."

"I have no understanding of your meaning," the Earl glared his distain. "I have been entrapped here illegally and with threats to my person. I demand you release me this instant."

"There's no real hurry, is there, Munro?" Mycroft clasped his hands once more behind his back. "After all, you came here of your own accord, for your own purposes."

"You know _nothing_ of my intentions," Munro almost spat the words as his anger roiled within him.

"You'd be amazed what I know of your private … _affairs_," Mycroft leaned slightly forward, his expression becoming distinctly coldblooded. "And I know precisely why you are here in London today, at this place. I know what, or perhaps I should say, _who_, you are looking for, and I know why."

Though he tried to disguise it, Munro was shocked by the words. Was it possible that someone on his staff had spoken out of place? But nobody had known his plans until earlier today … it was impossible for the information to have reached the ears of this man … this _governmental_ _pen pusher_, so quickly.

"That aside for the moment," Mycroft turned and walked a few paces to Croft's side. "I believe there is no requirement for introductions, is there?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr Holmes," Laura Croft's face had paled. "I don't know this man."

A strange smile curving his mouth, Mycroft turned to stare at her. "_Lies_, Ms Croft? _Really_? At this late stage of the game?" he paused. "Not only do you know this man very well as an employer and trader-of-secrets, but you also know him intimately, don't you? You're lovers."

Managing to keep a reasonable façade, Croft's skin flushed at the final comment. She had been trying to phone Andrew all day, but none of his numbers had responded, a fact she'd credited to poor reception in the Highlands, but which she realised probably had a more sinister origin.

"I see you are beginning to realise how much I know of your relationship and of all your … dealings."

Munro interrupted just as Croft was about to make some explanatory remark.

"You're _mad_," he scorned. "Quite mad. As if I would know this woman," the Earl's voice was vitriolic. "As if I would have anyone like her in my life," he laughed shortly. "I have no need of your floor-sweepings.'

Laura froze. About to maintain her denial of Munro, his word and the tone of his voicechanged her intent. She felt sick. Her throat closed with anger and hurt.

"Come, come, Munro," Mycroft was smiling openly now. "A lovely woman such as Ms Croft here, how could you resist?" his voice was light, almost teasing. "Especially when she could bring you so many helpful stories to use in your various interests; so many names and dates and places for you. How could you refuse?"

"I do not know this woman," Andrew Munro's voice was harsh and flat. "I have no idea what you're talking about, so please do not insult me further."

"_Insult you?!_" Croft stepped forward sharply. "_Insult_ you? You didn't act terribly insulted when you found out I worked for MI5 and could get into Mycroft Holmes' office," she hissed. "Nor when I showed you how to get his signature on all those documents, or when I suggested hiding them in Italy with the exact person I knew MI5 and MI6 had a special interest in, _you fucking Scottish bastard_," she shouted, stepping forward with the clear intent of visiting some righteous violence upon his person.

"Stop right there!" Munro shouted, bringing out his own gun; heavy-handled and menacing. He stepped up to Croft and dragged her against his chest, the muzzle of his pistol behind her ear. The sound of the weapon being cocked echoed around the courtyard.

"Time we left, I think, my dear," he muttered coolly, staring between Mycroft and Sherlock. "Before you say anything else which I might regret later."

He turned back to the younger Holmes. "On the ground," he said. "You and your gun, on the ground … NOW!" the Earl rammed the pistol hard into Croft's neck, her high cry of pain accentuating the lash of his words.

Mycroft blinked like a snake as his brother lowered Trentini's gun to the cobbles, before lowering himself down onto his knees, waiting.

"On your belly like a dog," Munro barked, the sound of triumph terrible in his voice.

Sighing gustily, Sherlock complied, resting his head on the back of his hands as he lay entirely still. "Someone will have to pay for the dry-cleaning," he muttered.

"And now you, Holmes," the Earl snarled, one hand grabbing Croft's hair, the other pointing the pistol at Mycroft's chest. "Down on your knees."

Raising his eyebrows the merest fraction, the elder Holmes looked tolerant. "I think not," he said, perfectly composed.

"On your knees or I have a mind to end our arguments once and for all," Munro growled, his face contorted by a feral scowl.

At the Guard's Building, Cate felt her body jerk forward as if pulled by strings. Jon grabbed her arm, holding her painfully still.

"_No_," he whispered. "You'd be another target. Your husband would kill me."

"Too bad," Cate smiled as she slipped her free hand over and around the spy's wrist, twisting it with all her weight as she moved swiftly around him, the pain of a wrongly torsioned shoulder-socket bringing him suddenly to one knee with a small whimper.

"So sorry, Mr Smith, but neither of us have a choice here," she whispered back, and stepped out from behind the stone building.

"Andrew Munro," she said quietly. "I think you have things to say to me."

The Earl of Tain snapped his eyes from Mycroft to her as she walked slowly out into the courtyard, his look one of faint displeasure but mostly stunned surprise.

Mycroft's head turned more slowly; a similar expression on his face, save that the proportions were directly reversed. A muscled flickered as he clamped his jaw tight.

"_You_ …" the Scot's voice trailed away as he watched her walk closer. "Why are you _here_ with all this, with _this_ man?" he nodded at Mycroft.

"He's my husband," she smiled, walking even closer, come to a halt not ten feet from where the Earl stood.

"Mycroft Holmes is your _husband_? _He_ is the one you said you were involved with?" Munro couldn't help it; he smiled. "You want me to believe you are married to _him_? Someone like you and _him_?" It was too much, he had to laugh. It was beyond credibility.

"You can prove it for yourself," Cate folded her arms, carefully maintaining eye-contact.

"You work for him, maybe, but you would never marry someone like…" Munro shook his head.

"If I had my phone I could show you my photographs , but you took that from me, didn't you?"

Munro knew he should get away from this place. He had a hostage, he had the only viable gun in play, he could go now, just walk away and they could do nothing about it. He should go. He knew it. His brain was screaming to _go_.

Instead he transferred the pistol to the hand holding Croft and dug in his pocket to unearth a silver Galaxy with a tiny red mark on the lower corner.

"I planned on returning it tonight," he said.

Mycroft's jaw tightened still further.

"But you still don't believe me, do you?" Cate allowed a trace of scorn to curl her mouth. "You're afraid to verify it because that would mean I prefer him to you, and your ego simply can't handle that, can it?" she mocked him, contemptuously. Making him doubtful. Making him defensive.

"I don't believe you," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. "Prove it."

"My phone," she held out her hand.

Scowling, Munro threw it to her. Pleased to have it back, Cate did something she'd schooled herself not to do as she entered Mycroft's password which, despite her best efforts, she now remembered perfectly. She also remembered to include the hyphens. All three of them. Now she had to play for time.

Moving from the main icons, she scrolled to her precious 'Keep' folder. Opening it, she cast her eye over an extensive collection of thumbnail images. Finally, she chose one.

It was of a wedding. A close-up photograph that had been entirely serendipitous. She and Mycroft were toasting each other with flutes of champagne, locked in each other's gaze, the afternoon light streaming to the camera came from behind them so they were almost in silhouette. The pale sky, the fragile glassware, the still-disbelieving smiles, the fact that their eyes were mere inches apart. It was a deeply romantic photograph.

Cate turned the camera to Munro. "Look," she said.

The Earl took the phone from her and looked, his face passing through a range of expressions as he did. Not liking what he saw, he flicked through several more pictures in the folder.

Risking a swift look at Mycroft, she saw his expression was outwardly calm but Cate observed the tension in his eyes. He was not pleased with her actions.

With a growl of anger, the Earl threw the Samsung to the stones at his feet.

"Then I'll just kill everyone here and be done with it all, shall I?" his voice rising in pitch and stress as his control, never easily balanced, started to career out of check. He raised the gun, swinging it first towards Mycroft, then at Cate, then back to Mycroft.

Stop now!" Jon stood out from the corner, his gun solid in both hands as he brought Munro into the sights of the weapon.

As the Scot was momentarily distracted and focused on Smith, Sherlock jerked himself up from the ground, retrieving Trentini's gun as he did so.

"Yes, stop," his baritone voice resonated in the stone enclave.

And then things went mad.

One of the main problems when a four-bladed, twin-engined Westland Puma comes to hover less than sixty feet overhead is that it is incredibly loud. Fortunately, this particular helicopter hung in the air above the courtyard only just long enough for the eight, dark-clad paratroopers to abseil down ropes, arriving in the courtyard with their automatic rifles at the ready.

Cate looked in awe at her phone on the ground. All Mycroft had said was that she might be arrested. She turned to look at him, raising her eyebrows.

He did not smile.

Munro took advantage of the distraction of the noisy arrival deciding that escape was preferable to the alternative. Dragging the off-balance Croft along with him, he turned and ran for the nearest gateway: it was the one at Wakefield Tower that led directly through to the Outer Keep.

Shrieking as she was dragged by her hair alongside the running man, Croft fought to remember her training, if only to throw him to the ground, but Munro was moving too fast and the pain was too much. By the sounds of boots pounding along behind them, the paratroopers had seen them run and were closing in quickly.

They came to a set of perilous stone stairs leading down and Croft was too slow; Munro finally abandoning her as she sank down at the top, cradling her head and cowering away from him. Taking the stairs at a manic run, Munro found himself in a large enclosed stone space beneath a high curving stone arch. Though currently dry, it was clearly a tidal area as there was green seaweed at the high-water mark and the smell of the river was very close. There was a sturdy wooden gate, heavily chained and locked, barricading the arch, and no chance he might slip through to the outside.

It took a few seconds, but the Earl of Tain finally realised where he was, and the delicious irony of the knowledge made him laugh so hard he almost came to tears.

_Traitor's Gate_.

The place where at least one of his ancestors had passed into English dominion, and now, here he was, the last of his line, still fighting for land and clan.

His rising laughter echoed round and around the stone enclosure, even as the sound of eight SA80s were levelled and readied.

###

"If it would do the slightest bit of good, you know I have every right to be absolutely incensed with you at this point."

They were in the Jaguar, finally heading for home. The loose ends had been brought together, allowing Smith to take Croft to MI5's custody rather than the police who took Carmichael whom Mycroft's people had earlier _persuaded_ to bring his lordship to the Tower. A heavily guarded Munro was also on his way to MI5, although it was quite likely that MI6 might want their pound of flesh. Sherlock had been offered a lift home but preferred to hail a cab, still muttering about his suit.

Given the flow of information from the transmitters Cate had placed in Castle Tain, new data had enabled Mycroft to arrange for the Earl's sniper to be removed from the ramparts, replacing him with a couple of his own. He realised he'd have to have those transmitters removed, and indeed he would. At some point.

But Cate hadn't known any of this, she'd just jumped into the middle of things as usual, although he had to admit, using her phone like that had been adroit.

"Are you truly furious?" she rubbed a finger over the cracked casing of her phone.

"_Livid_," Mycroft's gaze as he met hers was indeed somewhat intense.

"Do you want to divorce me?" she met his eyes calmly. "All this furiousness is bad for your blood-pressure, so if you want to divorce me, I'll quite understand."

"_Divorce_ you?" his voice faltered. He paused, rubbing a hand over his face and sighing. "Not that livid."

"Then please don't expect me to be terribly upset simply because you are," she said. "I don't want the children growing up without you and with that thought in mind, I have decided to act as I see fit in future. The only way you're going to have me behave otherwise is if you divorce me, so make up your mind, please." Cate swallowed as she said this, hoping she'd sounded more decisive than she felt.

"You would prefer I divorce you rather than insist on your safety?" his voice was odd, hesitant.

"If my safety means the loss of your own, then yes," Cate felt along the seat for his fingers, winding hers in between. "I will never be able to stand by and watch you at risk, darling," her voice was husky. "Thought you'd be used to it by now."

That Cate had just suggested divorce filled his chest with a sickening pressure. Divorce would not happen; would never happen.

"You bloody little fool," he murmured, pulling her bodily along the seat and into his arms. "As if I could live without you."

"And there's something else I have to tell you," Cate leaned into him, her body soaking him up.

"There's nothing else you have to tell me, my darling heart," Mycroft murmured into her hair. "Nothing at all."

"There is," she nodded against his chest. "If I don't tell you, I'll feel awful about it."

"Before you speak, let me just say this,' Mycroft held her away, looking into her eyes, his own expression more rueful than anything else.

"The transmitters you put into Castle Tain activated the second you pressed them into place," he said. "The very _moment_ you placed them, the pressure also activated them," he added. "Do you understand now why there is nothing you have to tell me?"

Cate thought back to last night, standing in Andrew Munro's moonlit bedroom. She had already secured the transmitter beneath the table when he'd kissed her. No wonder Mycroft didn't need her to say anything; _he already knew_.

"Don't divorce me, in that case," she whispered, wanting him to hold her, cling to her.

"I never will, you idiot."

They could hear Nora's voice as she spoke to the twins in the kitchen, obviously giving them their dinner before bath-time and bed. Walking on tiptoe, Cate turned back to smile brilliantly at him as they reached the kitchen door, watching his eyes light up at her expression.

"You really are unbelievable," he said, pulling her into his arms and into a kiss that burned the tiredness from her blood. Leaning back against the doorframe, neither noticed as the door swung silently open, revealing their passionate embrace to an interested audience of precisely three.

Still in his arms, Cate opened her eyes to see Mrs Compton staring at them with an expression that could only be described as _gooey_. She tapped Mycroft on the back. "We are not alone," she muttered, trying not to laugh. Lifting his head, he looked around to see not only a fluttery Nora, but a pair of fascinated children in highchairs.

"Hello, my loves," Cate unwound herself from Mycroft's arms and stepped into the kitchen to hug her children.

"_Mummy_!" Jules lifted his hands up in delight waving a small plastic duck. "Duckies, mummy. _Mallard duckies_!"

Mycroft had moved across to Blythe who was regarding him with a certain caution. He had been away for a very long time which was as long as _forever_.

"Hello, darling girl," Mycroft stroked her cheek as she sat in silence, her intelligent blue eyes, the mirror of his own, regarded him with dark suspicion. She scowled.

"_Adda_?" he suggested.

His daughter shook her head, a resolute cast to her expression that reminded him so much of Cate. Blythe narrowed her gaze and, waving her carrot, gave him a most particular look.

"_Daddy_."

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# Almost the end #

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Now things had calmed down, Cate was beginning to form a clearer picture of what she wanted to do next, but first, there was a task she'd set herself, a task she promised she would complete before anything else. Warning both Mycroft and Nora not to interfere and that she knew what she was doing, Cate closeted herself at her desk in the rear lounge.

Sitting at her laptop, she pulled up the file of her incomplete spy-novel. All 153,000 words of it. She looked at it thoughtfully, remembering how easily it had all rolled from her thoughts and fingers.

Selecting the entire document, her finger hovered for a second. Then she pressed _Delete_.

She had wanted to write a real novel about spies, and now she could.

_Chapter One_.

###

"This is the second week that Miss Cate has spent nigh on every minute in that office of hers," Nora Compton muttered. "The only time she's come out is to feed the children in the evening, tuck them up and then she'd right back in there," the older woman added. "It's not healthy is that."

Mycroft was well on the way to agreeing. For the last two weeks, Cate had been obsessed with this writing of hers to the detriment of everything else. Hardly eating, barely sleeping. He was, truth be told, beginning to feel deplorably neglected. It was time she took a break and managed her writing in a more balanced manner. The sound of her printer had been going for almost the entire morning and he was about to go and make her take a decent break – use blackmail, if necessary. If he had to, _he would even say nice things to her_.

The lounge door opened and an exhausted Cate stood blinking.

"I'm going to take a shower and then sleep and then have lots and lots of tea," she said, shoving a hugely thick pile of printed sheets into his hands. "G'night."

Patting Mrs Compton on the shoulder, Cate paused, stepping back to a bemused Mycroft. Sliding her hand around the side of his jaw, she brought his mouth down to hers and pleased herself with a kiss of no little enthusiasm.

Happy, she walked towards the stairs. "_Now_ I'm going to take a shower," she said.

###

'_And in the end, there was nothing left, he realised. No God or country; no law. The only important knowledge was the recognition that doing right was, in its own self, the thing of real value._

_ Looking at the cold gun in his hand, the English spy took a deep breath and pushed it deep in his pocket. It might be impossible to avoid the wrong, but at least he could try for the right._

_ Shrugging the long coat closer to his skin, Denver walked into the chilly night. Not a reasonable man perhaps, but a good spy.'_

Mycroft turned the final sheet over and stopped reading. He took a deep breath. Even to his imperfect understanding of the genre, this was a good narrative. He had been engrossed from the first page to the last, he looked at his Hunter. More than two hours it had taken him, even at his usual speed.

Standing, he walked to the kitchen, grabbing two glasses and an iced bottle of fizzy before making for the stairs and the master bedroom. Felicitations were in order.

###

It was Thursday. The University was expecting her back at her desk the following Monday. It had been a year and two weeks since she'd left her office and Cate experienced mixed emotions as she and Mycroft sat at the kitchen table drinking tea.

"I still want to teach, but I like being free to do other things," she looked undecided.

"My love, you know how I feel about the situation," Mycroft smiled. "But you also know I want you to do whatever it is you feel you want to do."

"You mean that?" Cate blew on the hot tea, thinking.

"Of course," Mycroft leaned forward, a slight frown on his face. "I'd never stand in the way of you doing whatever it is you might want to do."

"That's good," she looked up and met his eyes. And smiled.

A wave of realisation washed over him.

"To what have I just agreed?" he asked, his eyes closing briefly.

Extracting a letter from her pocket, Cate pushed it across the table for him to read. It was from a large and very well-known publishing house.

_Dear Cate, __re: The English Spy_

_Thank you for offering this manuscript to us for consideration. It is very surprising for a new writer in the field to produce such an expansive work which also offers such depth of narrative and understanding of the subject matter. We are most interested in publishing this work of fiction and are prepared to make you an initial offer to the sum of £175,000 for all United Kingdom and Commonwealth publishing rights, arrangements with our sister publishers in the United States to be…_

"I want to write," she said. "And I'll teach the new course I prepared last year at the University, and in-between …"

"In-between?" Mycroft's eyes were bright blue as he savoured her delight.

"I'll have other responsibilities," she murmured, walking over and sliding into his lap.

"Responsibilities such as ..?"

Winding her arms slowly around his neck, the writer of spies kissed the master of secrets.

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**THE END**

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**NEW STORY COMING SOON … The Sabbatical of Mycroft Holmes**

A romance. Summer, Sea, Sand and Smugglers. Mystery and mayhem in darkest Cornwall.

A Cate and Mycroft story.

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Huge thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read and comment on this tale.

Your thoughts and ideas are always very much appreciated.

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